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•*•. <• 





March, 1908 — August, 1908 


/ am a Bookman" — James Russell Lowell 



Fifth Avenue and 35TH Street 


All Rights Reserved 


March, 1908 — August, 1908 



Acton, Lord. "The Cambridge Modern History". 313 
Adams, Samuel Hopkins. Review of "The Con- 
fessions of Harry Orchard" 57 

"Adventures of Charles Edward, The." Harri- 
son Rhodes 414, 501 

Aldrich Memorial, An (Chronicle) 442 

Alexander, Archibald. Review of "This Mystical 

Life of Ours" 55 

American Bookplates (Chronicle) 545 

American Invasion, The. Arthur Bartlett 

Maurice 246 

"American Language, The." H. VV. Boynton... 63 
American Fainting, New Spirit in. Christian 

Brinton 351 

"American Philosophy." I. Woodbridge Riley.. 400 

Americans of the Legion. Adolphe Cohn 384 

Amundsen, Roald (Chronicle) 547 

An Author's Year (Chronicle) 23 

"Ancient Law, The." Ellen Glasgow 59 

April (Poem). Benjamin F. Leggett 151 

"Art of Singing, The." Sir Charles San t ley.... 601 

Aspects of Journalism (Chronicle) 341 

Atherton, Gertrude. The Greatest Woman's Club 

in the World 250 

Athletics and Intellect (Chronicle) 331 

Austin, Mary. "Santa Lucia" 400 

Author's Intrusion and Some Recent Books, The. 

Frederic Taber Cooper 301 

Automaton Pugilist, The (Chronicle) 128 

"Bachelor Betty." Winifred James. 103 

Baedeker, The New. Harry Thurston Peck 133 

Balzac Museum, A (Chronicle) 441 

Bancroft, Burton. Review of "The Barrier".... 282 
Bangs, John Kendrick. A New Verb (Poem) . . . 245 

"Barrier, The." Rex Beach 282 

Beach, Rex. "The Barrier" 282 

Beard, Dan. "Dan Beard's Animal Book" 60s 

Beardsley's Portraits (Chronicle) 549 

Begbie, Harold. "The Vigil" 20, 397 

Benson, R. Hugh. "Lord of the World" 284 

Beveridge, Albert J. "The Meaning of the 

Times" 490 

Bindloss, Harold. "Delilah of the Snows" 502 

"Blue Lagoon, The." H. de Vere Stacpoole. . . . 579 
Book in the Making, The. Laurence Burnham.. 308 
Bookraaking, Review of Some Recent and Not- 
able Examples of. Laurence Burnham 309 

Bookman's Letter Box, The 346, 557 

Book Mart, The 105, 209. 3*5, 415* 5X7* 623 

"Book of Fish and Fishing, The." Louis Rhead. 605 

Books, Best Selling 112, 224, 328, 432, 53*. 636 

Jpola of the Month 55, 161, 27a. 400, 484, $93 



Booth, Edward C "The Post Girl" 579 

Boynton, H. VV. "The American Language".... 63 

Review of "The Ancient Law". 59 

Review of "The Dynasts" 486 

Review of "Elizabethan 

Drama" 272 

" " Review of "Somehow Good"... 176 

"Breaking in of a Yachtsman's Wife, The." 

Mary Heaton Vorse 502 

Brinton, Christian. The New Spirit in American 

Painting 351 

Briquet, C. M. "Les Filigranes" 171 

Brodrick, Hon. George C. "The Political History 

of England" 313 

Brooke, Stopford A. "Four Victorian Poets"... 599 

Brown, Alice. "Rose MacLeod" 494 

Brownies and Palmer Cox, The (Chronicle) .... 539 
Bruce, H. Addington. "The Riddle of Person- 
ality" 278 

Burnham, Laurence. The Book in the Making. . 308 
" " The Photo-Secessionists .. 72 

" " Review of Some Recent 

and Notable Examples of 
Book making 309 

"Cambridge Modern History, The." Lord Acton. 313 
Campbell, William Wilfred. The Dawn (Poem). 7* 
Castle, Agnes and Egerton. "Flower o' the 

Orange" 18$ 

" " " R. A. Whay... 35 

Casual Reader, The. F. M. Colby 449, 566 

"Chatterton, Thomas." Charles Edward' Russell. 484 
"Chorus Lady, The," and "Go To It" (Chronicle). 243 

Chronicle and Comment 1, 113, 225, 331, 435, 533 

Churchill Novel (Chronicle) 129 

Clark, Ward. Review of "The Footprint" 283 

Review of "The Great Secret". . 61 

Review of "Rose MacLeod" 494 

Close to the Record (Chronicle) 235 

Cohn, Adolphe. Americans of the Legion 384 

Colbron, Grace Isabel Holger Drachmann — An 

Appreciation 39 

" " " Review of "The Adven- 
tures of Charles Ed- 
ward" 414 

•• Review of "Old Wives 

for New" 495 

" " Review of "Somehow 

Good" 178 

Review of "Sowing Seeds 

in Danny" 604 

Colby, F. M. The Casual Reader 449, 566 

" Review of -The New American 

Type and Other Essays" 404 




Cole, George Watson. Review of "Suppressed 

Plates" 161 

"Come and Find Me." Elizabeth Robins 183 

Comstock, Harriet T. " Janet of the Dunes" 101 

Concerning Literary Grafters (Chronicle) 34* 

••Confessio Medici" 596 

"Confessions of Harry Orchard, The" . 57 

Convention of Revolt, The. John A. Macy 262 

Cooper, Frederic Taber. The Author's Intrusion 

and Some Recent Books 301 

" The First Impression and Some Recent 

Novels 99 

" The Function of Fiction and Some Re- 
cent Novels 574 

" The Novelist's Message and Some Recent 

Books 394 

" The Point of View and Some Recent 

Novels 179 

" The Structure of Plot and Some Recent 

Books 408 

" Review of "The Adventures of Charles 

Edward" 501 

" Review of "Bachelor Betty" 103 

" Review of "The Blue Lagoon" 579 

" Review of "The Breaking in of a Yachts- 
man's Wife" 50a 

" Review of "Come and Find Me" 183 

•* Review of "The Daughter" 396 

" Review of "Delilah of the Snows" 502 

•* Review of "The Dissolving Circle" 306 

Review of "The Fair Moon of Bath".. 580 

** Review of "Flower o' the Orange" 185 

Review of "The Folk Afield" 185 

" Review of "The Footprint" 307 

" Review of "Furze the Cruel" 304 

" Review of "Gleam o' Dawn" 503 

- Review of "The Golden Ladder" 399 

" Review of "The Grey Knight" 308 

" Review of "The Harringtons of High- 
croft Farm" 102 

" Review of "The Heart of a Child".... 303 
«* Review of 'The Heart of the Red Firs". 578 

" Review of "His First Leave" 308 

M Review of "Janet of the Dunes" iox 

" Review of "Love's Logic" 501 

" Review of "The Man of Yesterday".... 306 

" Review of "My Lady of Cleeve" 184 

M Review of "The Post Girl" 579 

" Review of "The Primadonna" 396 

** Review of "The Real Agatha" 104 

•* Review of "R. J.'s Mother" 577 

" Review of "Santa Lucia" 400 

" Review of "Seraphica" 307 

" Review of "The Soul of a Priest" 305 

M Review of "The Spanish Jade" 500 

. . " Review of "Together" 580 

" Review of 'The Tracks We Tread".... 102 

" Review of "Travers" 101 

" Review of "Under the Southern Cross". 104 

" Review of "The Vigil" 397 

M Review of "A Walking Gentleman".... 184 

" Review of "The Wayfarers" 576 

m Review of "The White Rose of Weary 

Leaf" 579 

" Review of "William Jordan, Junior"... 181 

Coppee, Francois. Henry Stuart 455 

Crawford, Marion. "The Primadonna" 396 

Cromer, Lord. "Modern Egypt" 492 


Cutting, Mary Stewart. "The Wayfarers" 576 

"Dan Beard's Animal Book." Dan Beard 605 

Danby, Frank, New Novel by (Chronicle) 7, 303 

"Daughter, The." Constance Smedley 396 

Davis, Charles Belmont, Sketch of (Chronicle) . . 449 
Davis, H. W. C. "England under the Normans 

and Angevins" 311 

Davis, Richard Harding, Latest Style of (Chron- 
icle) 446 

Dawn, The (Poem). William Wilfred Campbell. 72 

Dean, Sara. "Travers" 19, iox 

Deland, Margaret "R. J.'s Mother" 577 

"Delilah of the Snows." Harold Bindloss 502 

de Morgan, William. "Somehow Good" 176 

Desultory Combat, A (Chronicle) 541 

Diamond Wedding, The (Chronicle) 13 

"Dissolving Circle. The." Will Lillibridge 306 

Dodge, Theodore Ayrault. "Napoleon" 167 

Doyle, Arthur Conan. "Through the Magic Door". 597 
Drachmann (Holger) — An Appreciation. Grace 

Isabel Colbron 39 

Dredd, Firmin. The Most Incredible True Stories 

in the World ; 568 

Ducal Reformer, A (Chronicle) 241 

"Dynasts, The." Thomas Hardy 486 

"Elizabethan Drama." F. E. Schelling 272 

Ellis, Beth (Chronicle) 25 

" "The Fair Moon of Bath" 580 

Emerson as a Muck-Raker (Chronicle) 234 

"England under the Normans and Angevins." 

H. W. C Davis 3" 

"Exton Manor." Archibald Marshall 178 

"Fair Moon of Bath, The." Beth Ellis 580 

"Favorite Fish and Fishing." James A. HenshalL 605 

"Fennel and Rue." William Dean Howells 281 

"Filigranes, Lea." C. M. Briquet 171 

First Impression and Some Recent Novels, The. 

Frederic Taber Cooper 99 

Fletcher, J. S. "The Harringtons of Highcroft 

Farm" 102 

"Flower o' the Orange." Agnes and Egerton 

Castle 185 

"Fly on the Wheel, The" (Serial). Katherine 

Cecil Thurston 81, 194, 285, 362, 503, 609 

"Flying Death, The" (Chronicle) 27 

"Folk Afield, The." Eden Phillpotts 185 

"Footprint, The." Gouverneur Morris 283, 307 

Ford, Mary K. Review of "Lord of the World". 284 
*• " Some Recent Women Short- 
Story Writers 15a 

"Four-Pools Mystery, The" (Chronicle) 235 

"Four Victorian Poets." Stop ford A. Brooke.... 599 
France (Anatole) and Jeanne D'Arc. Talbot 

Tonnellier 1 74, 192 

Francis, C. M. Review of "Social Pyschology". . 593 

Review of "Confessio Medici" . . 506 

Frechette, Louis Honor* (Chronicle) 444 

Fuller, Edward. The Rewriting of History 311 

Review of "The Cambridge 

Modern History" 313 

Review of "England under the 

Normans and Angevins" .... 31 x 
Review of "A History of the 

Inquisition of Spain" 312 

Review of "The King over the 

Water" 169 








2 *>*^.. *~ 





Fuller, Edward. Review of "The Last of the 

Royal Stuarts" 171 

Review of "The Political His- 
tory of England" 311 

Function of Fiction and Some Recent Novels, The. 

Frederic Tabcr Cooper 574 

"Furze the Cruel." John Trevena 304 

Futrelle, Jacques. "The Thinking Machine on 
the Case" 496 

Gentleman Vagabond in Fiction (Chronicle).... 127 
German's Caricatures of Literary Men, A. Gard- 
ner Teall 141 

Gladden, George. Some New Out-Door Rooks... 605 

Review of "The Book of Fish 

and Fishing" 605 

Review of "Dan Beard's Ani- 
mal Book" 605 

" " Review of "Favorite Fish and 

Fishing" 605 

" " Review of "The Huntsman in 

the South" 605 

Review of "The Sport of Bird 

Study" 605 

Glasgow, Ellen. "The Ancient Law" 59 

"Gleam o' Dawn." Arthur Goodrich 503 

"Golden Ladder, The." Margaret Potter 399 

"Golden Rose, The." Amclie Rives 413 

Goodrich, Arthur. "Gleam o' Dawn" 503 

Gould, Rev. S. Baring (Chronicle) 548 

Great Expectations (Chronicle) 331 

"Great Secret, The." E. Phillips Oppenheim 61 

Greatest Woman's Club in the World, The. Ger- 
trude Atherton 250 

Green, Helen (Chronicle) 3 

"Grey Knight, The." Mrs. Henry de la Pasture. 398 
Gun, the Dog, and the Man (Chronicle) 228 

HaleVy, Ludovic (Chronicle) 335 

"Halfway House." Maurice Hewlett 602 

Hamilton, Clayton 340 

Happy Ending, The. S. Strunsky 29 

Hardy, Thomas. "The Dynasts" 486 

Harker, L. Allen. "His First Leave".... 398 

"Harringtons of Highcroft Farm, The." J. S. 

Fletcher 102 

Harris, Joel Chandler 551 

Hartley, Percy J. "My Lady of Cleeve" 184 

"Heart of a Child, The." Frank Danby 7, 303 

•Heart of Gambetta, The" (Chronicle) 114 

"Heart of the Red Firs, The." Ada Woodruff. . 578 

"Henry, O.," Sketch of (Chronicle) 436 

Henry, Stuart. The Personal Francois Coppee.. 45s 
Henshall, James A. "Favorke Fish and Fishing". 605 

Herrick, Robert. "Together" 580 

Hewlett, Maurice. "Halfway House" 602 

"The Spanish Jade" 509 

Hill, Frederick Trevor. Review of "On the Wit- 
ness Stand" 406 

"His First Leave." L. Allen Harker 398 

"History of the Inquisition of Spain, A." Henry 

Charles Lea 312 

Hodgkin, Thomas. "The Political History of 

England" 3" 

Hope, Anthony. "Love's Logic" 5°' 

Hopkins, Herbert M. "Priest and Pagan" 280 

Houk, L. C. Violett. Sketch of (Chronicle) 446 

Howells, William Dean. "Fennel and Rue" 281 

Hunt. Violet. "The White Rote of Weary Leaf. 579 


Hunter, Alexander. "The Huntsman in the 
South" 6o S 

"Huntsman in the South, The." Alexander 
Hunter 605 

If the President Should Commit Murder — ? Rich- 
ard W. Kemp 380 

Imputation of Cleverness, The (Chronicle) 344 

Isaacs. Lewis M. Review oi "The Art of Sing- 
ing" 601 

Italian as a Caricaturist, The. Gardner Teall.. 477 

James, Winifred. "Bachelor Betty" 103 

"Janet of the Dunes." Harriet T. Comstoclc 101 

"Jean D'Arc." Anatole France 174 

Job, Herbert K. "The Sport of Bird Study" 605 

"Journalistic Inerrancy" (Chronicle) 124 

Joy Cometh in the Morning (Poem). Charlotte 
W. Thurston 379 

Kemp, Richard W. If the President Should 

Commit Murder — ?.... 380 
Review of "Napoleon"... 167 
Review of "Priest and 

Pagan" 280 

Kennedy, Charles Rann. "The Servant in the 

House" 408 

Kingery, II. M. Review of "The Tragedies of 

Seneca" 276 

"King over the Water, The." A. Shield and An- 
drew Lang 1 69 

Kinkaid, Mary Holland. "The Man of Yester- 
day" 306 

Kipling in Politics (Chronicle) 226 

Kipling's French Influence (Chronicle) 549 

Lancaster. G. B. "The Tracks We Tread" 102 

Lang, Andrew. "The King over the Water".... 169 
"Last of the Royal Stuarts, The." Herbert M. 

Vaughan 171 

Launching of a Famous Poem. Bailey Millard.. 267 
Layard, George Somes. "Suppressed Plates".... 161 
Lea, Henry Charles. "A History of the Inquisi- 
tion of Spain" 31a 

Lea, Homer (Chronicle) 131 

Leggett, Benjamin F. April (Poem) 151 

Leroux, Gaston. "The Mystery of the Yellow 

Room" 535, 603 

Lie, Jonas (Chronicle) 535 

Lillibridge, Will. "The Dissolving Circle" 306 

Literary Centenaries (Chronicle) 235 

Literary Horrors Club, The (Chronicle) 123 

Literary Tyranny (Chronicle) 15 

Litta, Duke. "The Soul of a Priest" 305 

London Times, Story of the (Chronicle) 9 

"Lord of the World." R. Hugh Benson 284 

Lorimcr (G. H.) Interviewed (Chronicle) 438 

Lost Legion, The (Chronicle) 15 

Lost Opportunity, The (Chronicle) 544 

"Love's Logic." Anthony Hope 501 

McCarthy, Justin Huntley. "Seraphica" 307 

McClung, Nellie L. "Sowing Seeds in Danny". . 604 
Mar Dowel 1 (Professor) and Columbia University 

(Chronicle) 16, 245 

Macy, John A. The Convention of Revolt 262 

The State of Pseudo-Poetry at 
the Present Time 5»3 








Macy, John A. Review of "The Meaning of the 

Times" 490 

"Magistrate's Own Case, The" (Chronicle) .28 

"Man of Yesterday, The." Mary Holland Kin- 

kaid 306 

Marchand, J. Review of "The Mother of the 

Man" 60 

Marsh, Edward Clark. Owen VVister 458 

" Representative American 

Story Tellers 458 

Review of "The Golden 

Rose" 413 

Review of "Halfway 

House" 602 

Review of "The Riddle 

of Personality" 278 

Review of "With Walt 
Whitman in Camden". 164 

Marshall, Archibald. "Ext on Manor" 14, 178 

Mason, Edith Huntington. "The Real Agatha". 104 
Maurice, Arthur Bartlett. The American Invasion. 246 

Review of "Through the 

Magic Door" 597 

Meaning of the Times, The." Albert J. Beve- 

ridge 490 

"Memoirs of a Russian Governor." Serge 

Dmitriyevich Urussov 274 

Merington, Marguerite. The New Theatre 561 

"Metropolis, The" (Chronicle) 120-123 

Millard, Bailey. The Launching of a Famous 

Poem 267 

" The Poet Mayor of San Fran- 
cisco 467 

Miller, Frank Justus. "The Tragedies of Seneca". 276 

Mr. Bumble Unbends (Chronicle) 234 

Mitchell, Henry Bedinger. "Talks on Religion". 488 

"Modern Egypt." Lord Cromer 492 

"Money Changers., The" (Chronicle) 535 

Morris, Gouverneur. "The Footprint" 283, 307 

Most Incredible True Stories in the World, The. 

Firmin Dredd 568 

"Mother of the Man, The." Eden Phillpotts. . 42, 60 
Munsterberg, Hugo. "On the Witness Stand".. 406 

"My Lady of Cleeve." Percy J. Hartley 184 

"Mystery of the Yellow Room, The." Gaston 

Leroux 603 

"Myths about Monarchs" (Chronicle) 440 


"Napoleon." Theodore Ayrault Dodge 167 

"New American Type and Other Essays, The." 

Henry D. Sedgwick 404 

New Theatre, The. Marguerite Merington 561 

New Verb, A (Poem). John Kendrick Bangs... 245 

New York in Recent Fiction (Chronicle) 435, 534 

Note, A (Chronicle) 435 

Novelist's Message and Some Recent Books, 

The. Frederic Taber Cooper 394 

"Old Room, The" (Chronicle) 240 

Old Studio, The (Chronicle) 229 

"Old Wives for New." D. G. Phillips 495 

"On the Witness Stand." Hugo Munsterberg. . 406 

Oppenheim, E. Phillips. "The Great Secret" 61 

Other "Who's Whos" (Chronicle) 233 

Ouida (Chronicle) 25, 235 

Our Unconventional Portraits (Chronicle) 225 

Passing New York, The (Chronicle) 243 

Pasture, de la, Mrs. Henry. "The Grey Knight". 398 

Peck, Harry Thurston. Edmund Clarence Sted- 

man 31 

The New Baedeker.... 133 

Portland, Maine 133 

Review of "American 

Philosophy" 400 

Persona Grata and Persona non Grata 239 

Phillips, David Graham. "Old Wives for New".. 495 

Phillpotts, Eden. "The Folk Afield" 185 

"The Mother of the Man".. 42, 60 

Photo-Secessionists, The. Laurence Burnham ... 7a 

"Pinched" (Chronicle) 1 

Poet Mayor of San Francisco, The. Bailey 

Millard 467 

Point of View, The (Chronicle) 28 

Point of View and Some Recent Novels, The. 

Frederic Taber Cooper 179 

"Political History of England, The." Hon. 

George C. Brodrick 313 

"Political History of England, The." Thomas 

Hodgkin 311 

"Political History of England, The." T. F. Tout. 312 

Portland, Maine. Harry Thurston Peck 133 

Post, Emily (Chronicle) 240 

"Post Girl, The." Edward C. Booth 579 

Potter, Margaret. "The Golden Ladder" 399 

President's French Double, The (Chronicle) 533 

President's Literary Value, The (Chronicle).... 533 

"Priest and Pagan." Herbert M. Hopkins 280 

"Primadonna, The." Marion Crawford 396 

Prior, James. "A Walking Gentleman" 184 

"R. J.'s Mother." Margaret Deland 577 

Rageot, Gaston. A French Estimate of George 

Bernard Shaw 474 

Readers' Guide to Books Received. .105, 209, 315, 

415. 517. 623 
"Real Agatha, The." Edith Huntington Mason.. 104 

Real Pension de Shine, The (Chronicle) 534 

Representative American Story Tellers. VI. Owen 

Wister. Edward Clark Marsh 458 

Rewriting of History, The. Edward Fuller 311 

Rhead, Louis. "The Book of Fish and Fishing".. 605 
Rhodes, Harrison. "The Adventures of Charles 

Edward" 414, 501 

Sketch of (Chronicle) 345 

"Riddle of Personality, The." H. Addington 

Bruce 278 

Riley, I. Woodbridge. "American Philosophy"... 400 

Sketch of (Chronicle) .... 34a 
Review of "Memoirs of a 

Russian Governor" 274 

Review of "Talks on Re- 
ligion" 488 

Rives, Amelie. "The Golden Rose" 4»3 

Robins, Elizabeth. "Come and Find Me" 183 

" " "Under the Southern Cross". 104 

"Rose MacLeod." Alice Brown 494 

Ross, Edward A. "Social Psychology" 593 

Rough-House Diplomacy (Chronicle) 235 

Russell, Charles Edward. "Thomas Chatterton". 484 
Russell. John William. Review of "Modern 







Salon of the Humourists, The. Alvan F. Sanborn. 581 

Sanborn, Alvan F. Review of "Jean D'Arc" 174 

" " The Salon of the Humour- 
ists 581 

"Santa Lucia." Mary Austin 400 




Santley, Sir Charles. "The Art of Singing".... 601 

Schelling, Felix E. "Elizabethan Drama" 272 

"Schemers, The" (Chronicle) 242 

Schinz, A. Review of "Les Filigranes" 171 

Schuyler, Montgomery. Review of "Thomas 

Chatterton" 484 

Review of "Four Vic- 
torian Poets" 599 

Sedgwick, Henry D. '"The New American Type 

and Other Essays" 404 

"Scraphica." Justin Huntley McCarthy 307 

"Servant in the House, The." Charles Rann 

Kennedy 408 

Seymour, Thomas Day (Chronicle) 15 

Shaw (George Bernard), A French Estimate of. 

Gaston Rageot 474 

Reasons of (Chroni- 
cle) 331 

Sherlock Holmes, Ultimate Source of (Chronicle) 113 

Shield, A. "The King over the Water" 169 

"Silent War, The" (Chronicle) 333 

Smedley, Constance. "The Daughter" 396 

Snaith, J. C. (Chronicle) 126 

-William Jordan, Junior" 181 

"Social Psychology." Edward A. Ross 593 

Socialism in Literature (Chronicle) 119 

Some Glimpses of the Author of "Uncle Remus." 

Caroline Ticknor 551 

"Somehow Good." William de Morgan 176 

Some New Out-Door Books. George Gladden... 605 
Some Recent Women Short-Story Writers. Mary 

K. Ford 152 

"Soul of a Priest, The." Duke Litta 305 

"Sowing Seeds in Danny." Nellie L. McClung. . 604 

"Spanish Jade, The." Maurice Hewlett 500 

Spirit of Unrest, The. Talbot Tonnellier 456 

"Sport of Bird Study, The." Herbert K. Job... 605 

Stacpoole, H. de Vere. "The Blue Lagoon" 579 

Stark, Beverly. Review of "The Mystery of the 

Yellow Room" 603 

Review of "The Servant in the 

House" 408 

State of Pseudo-Poetry at the Present Time, The. 

John A. Macy 513 

Stedman (Edmund Clarence) and Field (Eugene). 

Caroline Ticknor 147 

Stedman (E. C.) in Chicago (Chronicle) 128 

" " Harry Thurston Peck 31 

" " Wanted— A Man (Poem).. 34 

Stringer, Arthur, Sketch of (Chronicle) 119, 441 

Structure of Plot and Some Recent Books, The. 

Frederic Taber Cooper 498 

Strunaky, S. The Happy Ending 29 

"Suppressed Plates." George Somes Layard.... 161 

"Talks on Religion. Henry Bedinger Mitchell.. 488 
Teall, Gardner. A German's Caricatures of Liter- 
ary Men 141 

" " The Italian as a Caricaturist 477 

•Thinking Machine on the Case, The." Jacques 

Futrelle 49* 

"This Mystical Life of Ours." Ralph Waldo 

Trine SS 


Three New Immortals (Chronicle) 233 

"Through the Magic Door." Arthur Co nan Doyle. 597 
Thurston, Charlotte W. Joy Cometh in the 

Morning (Poem) 379 

Thurston, Katherine Cecil. "The Fly on the 

Wheel".. 81, 194, 
285, 362, 503. 609 
Next novel by 

(Chronicle) 24s 

Ticknor, Caroline. Edmund Clarence Stedman 

and Eugene Field 147 

" " Some Glimpses of the Author 

of "Uncle Remus" 551 

Tinayre (Marcelle) and the Ribbon (Chronicle) . . 21 

"Together." Robert Herrick 580 

Tonnellier, Talbot. Anatole France and Jeanne 

D'Arc 19a 

The Spirit of Unrest 456 

Tout, T. F. "The Political History of England". 31a 

"Tracks We Tread, The." G. B. Lancaster 10a 

"Tragedies of Seneca, The." Frank Justus 

Miller 276 

Traubel, Horace. "With Walt Whitman in Cam- 
den" 1*4 

Travelling with Mark Twain (Chronicle) 227 

"Travcrs." Sara Dean 101 

Trevena, John. "Furze the Cruel" 304 

Trine, Ralph Waldo. "This Mystical Life of 

Ours" SS 

Twain, Mark, Travelling with (Chronicle) 227 

Two Bas-reliefs (Chronicle) 21 

"Under the Southern Cross." Elizabeth Robins.. 104 
Urussov, Serge Dmitriyevich. "Memoirs of a 
Russian Governor" 274 

Van Westrum, A. Schade. Review of "Fennel 
and Rue" 281 

Vaughan, Herbert M. "The Last of the Royal 
Stuarts" 171 

"Vigil, The." Harold Begbie 397 

Vorse, Mary Heaton. "The Breaking in of a 
Yachtsman's Wife" 502 

"Walking Gentleman, A." James Prior 184 

Wanted— A Man (Poem). Edmund Clarence 

Stedman 34 

"Wayfarers, The." Mary Stewart Cutting 576 

Whay, R. A. Egerton and Agnes Castle 3s 

Review of "The Thinking Machine 

on the Case" 496 

"White Rose of Weary Leaf. The." Violet Hunt 579 
"Who's Who in America," The New (Chronicle). 230 

"William Jordan, Junior." J. C Snaith 181 

Wire Monument, The (Chronicle) x 

Wister. Owen. Edward Clark Marsh 458 

"With Walt Whitman in Camden." Horace 

Traubel 164 

Woodruff, Ada. "The Heart of the Red Firs".. 578 
Writing the Motor Yarn (Chronicle) 346 





Aldrich, Thomas Bailey, Boyhood home of 444 

Alexander, John W., Painting by 356 

Allegorical tableau representing Ticknor and Co. 149 

Alpena, Marquesa de 6 

Home of 7 

Amundsen, Roald 547 

"Ancient Law. The," Two scenes from 23a 

Annan, J. Craig, Painting by 80 

Bacon, Josephine Daskam 159 

Bain, J. H 19 

Beach, Rex 231 

Beardsley Portraits 549 

Begbie, Harold 19 

Begg, S 19 

Belmont, Perry 385 

"Beloved Vagabond, The," Original of 130 

Benson, Frank W., Fainting by 355 

Bernstein, Henri 130 

Bereridge, Albert J 438, 439 

Bjornson 144 

Brandes, George 145 

Breck, Edward 443 

Brewster, "Monty," Home of 435 

Briquet, C. M 131 

Brooks, John Graham 119 

Brownson, Willard H 391 

Bruce, H. Addington 341 

"Butterfly, The" 353 

Casco Bay, Portland, Maine 134, 135, 136 

Castle, Agnes and Egerton 35, 38 

" Home of 36, 37 

Catner, Willa S 153 

Chamberlain, Esther 339 

Chamberlain, Lucia 339 

Chase, William M 79 

Churchill, Winston 129 

Comstock, Harriet T 21 

Coppee, Francois 434 

Cox, Palmer 540 

Home of 539 

W. P S47 

Catting, Mary Stewart 155 

Danby, Frank 8 

D'Annunrio, Gabriel 142 

" Caricatures of 480, 482 

Davis, Charles Belmont 448 

Daris, Richard Harding 448 

Day, Holman 332 

Dean, Sara 18 

Defend, Margaret 333 

Da La Ramee, Louise 24 

de Machy, Robert, Painting by 78 

de Morgan, William 229 

Dodd, Anna Bowman, Home of 237 

Drachmann, Holger 40 

Caricature of 480 


"Easterner, The," Scene from the play 190 

Eastman, George 388 

Edison, Thomas A 389 

"Eleanor" 355 


Ellis, Beth 23 

Ewald, Carl 241 

"Father and the Boys," Scene from the play. ... 188 

Filigranes 172, 173, 174 

Fisher, Harrison 333 

Forman, J ustus Miles 334 

Fortier, A 389 

France, Anatole 192 

Franklin Inn Club of Philadelphia 5 

Frechette Louis Honore" 447 

French, Daniel Chester 388 

Gale, Zona 1 54 

Gorky, Maxim 142 

Gould, Rev. Baring 548 

Green, Helen 4 

Groesbeck, D. S 230 

Growoll, A 545 

Gulbransson, Caricature of 141 

Hamilton, Cicely 546 

Hamilton, Clayton 340 

Harpswell Landing, Portland, Maine 13a 

Harris, Joel Chandler 552 

" Facsimile of page of MS. of. 553 

Hassam, Childe, Painting by 354 

Hastings, Thomas 390 

Heine 145 

" Caricature by 141 

Henneberg, Hugo, Painting by 73 

"Henry, O." 437 

Hervieu, Paul 142 

" " Caricature of 482 

Hewlett, Maurice 536 

Hill, Dr. and Mrs. David Jayne 238 

Hobart, George V 243 

Houk, L. C. Violett 447 

Howard, General O. 389 

Howe, M. A. De Wolfe 545 

Ibsen 144 

Italian as a Caricaturist, The 477*483 

James, Winifred 18 

Jepson, Edgar 341 

Johnson, Robert Underwood 385 

Jordan, Elizabeth 158 

Keller, Helen, Bas-relief of so 

Kelly, Myra 160 

Kennedy, Charles Rann 336 

Kings Port, the scene of "Lady Baltimore" 46s 

Kipling, Rudyard 226 

Knapp, Adeline 546 

Krehbiel, H. E 389 

Kuhn, Heinrich, Painting by 74 

"Lady Baltimore," Fac-simile of page of original 

manuscript 461 

La Farge, John, Painting by 330 

Landscapes 73. 74. 75. 77 

Larkspur Cafion, California s68 

Last Meal for three days 538 

Lea, Homer 338 




Leon, Leonie 115 

Lie, Jonas 537 

Litta-Visconti-Arese, Duke 242 

Lloyd, Beatrix Demarcst 153 

Lorimer, George Horace. 243, 438 

Lyceum Club 253-261 

"Lyman's Ledge" 354 

lii'Cormick, Cyrus II 390 

McCutcheon, Mr. and Mrs. George Barr 227 

Macdowell, Edward A 17 

Mansfield, Blanche McManus 228 

Map showing Invasion of Europe by American 

Writers 246 

Mason, Grace Sartwell 538 

Massey, Arnaud 533 

Metcalf, Willard L., Painting by 358 

Methuen, Mr. and Mrs 116 

Miller, Elizabeth 343 

Mills, Weymer Jay 447 

Mitchell, John Ames 335 

Monk of II Redcntore 80 

Morris, Gouverneur 445 

"Mother and Child" 357 

Munsey, Frank A 440 

"My Captain," Draft manuscript of 165 

New Theatre, The 562 

New York in Fiction 435, 436, 534, 535 

O'Higgins, Harvey 546 

Oppenheim, E. Phillips, and Family 2 

Ouida 24 

Palmer, Mrs. Fotter 392 

Post, Emily 240 

President's French Double 533 

Prevost, Marcel 142 

Putnam, George Haven 386 

"Regeneration, The," Scene from the play 191 

Reid, Robert, Painting by 353 

Rhead, Louis 442 

Rhodes, Harrison 344 

Riley, I. Woodbridge 34* 

Rives, Amelie 337 

Roosevelt, President 143* 146 

Salisbury, William 340 

Salon of the Humourists, The 581-592 

Seeley, George H., Painting by 75, 76 

Seelye (President) of Smith College 359 

Shaw (George Bernard) as the Beadle 475 

Sickles, General 3&7 

Simmons, Edward, Painting by 357 


Sinclair, May, Bas-relief of 20 

Sinclair, Upton 120 

Sisters, The * 76 

Skinner, Otis 187 

Skipper's Wooing, The 3 

"Snow Bearers, The" 358 

Sothern (E. H.) as Rodion Raskolnikoff 186 

Snargo, John 334 

Spender, J . A 343 

Stedman, Edmund Clarence 33 

Steichen, Edward J., Painting by 79 

Stephens, Robert Neilson 3 

Stimson, Frederick J 118 

Street in Lisieux, A • 78 

Street, Julian 228 

Stringer, Arthur 1 17* 441 

"Study in Black and Green" 356 

Suppressed Plates 162, 163 

Tarbell, Edmund C, Painting by 359 

Tarkington, Mr. and Mrs. Booth 227 

Taylor, Edward Robeson 469, 472 

Library of 468 

Tetrazzini, Madame 22 

Thurston, Katherine Cecil 244 

Tolstoy 144 

Tompkins, Juliet Wilbor 158 

Torbctt, D 242 

Tower, Mr. and Mrs. Charlemagne 239 

Troubctskoy, Princess 337 

Van Vorst, Mrs. John 116 

Von Bodman, Emanuel 144 

Vorse, Mary Heaton 157 

Wagnerian Opera at the Scala 477 

Walker, Horatio, Painting by 360 

Warner, Anne 23 

Watts. Mary S 157 

White, Clarence H., Painting by 7/ 

Wilde, Oscar, Facsimile page from letter of.... 166 

Williams, Jesse Lynch 229 

Williamson, Mr. and Mrs 116 

Wilstach, Paul, Map by 246 

Wister. Owen 465 

"Witching Hour, The," Scene from the play 189 

Wolf Tamer, The. John La Farge 330 

Wood, Eugene 241 

Wood Cutters, The 360 

Woodrow, Mrs. Wilson 1 5$ 

Woodward, Benjamin Duryea 39* 

Zola, Emile, Tomb of 447 


A Magazine of Literature and Life* 

MARCH, i 908 


The humour of school and college 
examinations is perennial. The latest 

specimen that has come 

to us was contributed by 

"Pinched" one of the high schools in 

this city, where a girl in 
the department of his- 
tory was required to write a brief sketch 
of Queen Elizabeth. Her paper when 
turned in was found to contain the fol- 
lowing sentence: "Elizabeth was so dis- 
honest that she stole her soldiers' food." 
The teacher who conducted these exam- 
inations was puzzled to know just whence 
this particular information had perco- 
lated into the girl's mind. So, calling her 
up, she asked the question. 

"Why," was the ready answer, "that's 
just what it says in the history." 

The book was sent for, and the pas- 
sage examined. It was found to read : 
"Elizabeth was so parsimonious that she 
even pinched her soldiers' rations." 

We notice that a number of ex-Con- 
federate soldiers and also a number of 

influential Southern jour- 
The nals, such as the Rich- 

Wirz mond News Letter, have 

Monument expressed their regret 

that a monument should 
have been erected by the Georgia Daugh- 
ters of the Confederacy to the memory 
of Captain Henry Wirz. Wirz was a 
Swiss mercenary soldier, not even nat- 
uralised in the Southern Confederacy. 
He, with John H. Winder, was in charge 
of the prison-pens at Andersonville, 

Georgia, in which some fifty thousand 
Union captives were confined from Feb- 
ruary, 1864, vantil the approach of Sher- 
man's army on its way northward. Wirz 
was tried with every due formality. He 
was found to have been guilty of the 
most brutal conduct toward his prison- 
ers, and he was very properly hanged. 
Had Winder not died a natural death, 
he, too, would have been hanged, for he 
was even worse than Wirz — not merely 
because he was the principal official in 
command at Andersonville, but because, 
besides being cruel and malignant, he was 
a common thief who robbed his prison- 
ers and refused to let them receive the 
stores which were sent them from the 
North. We are glad that many ex-Con- 
federates have protested against per- 
petuating the recollection of Wirz; but 
we were already quite sure that no 
Southern man — at least no Southern man 
who bore arms for the Lost Cause — 
would have sanctioned the erection of a 
monument to a common malefactor. Of 
the fifty thousand prisoners under Wirz's 
care, fully a third died in the dreadful, 
loathsome pens where they were huddled 
together. The charge against Wirz is 
not that he gave them insufficient food. 
At a time when General Lee's own 
soldiers were nearly starving, it was evi- 
dent enough that abundant food could 
not be furnished to captive enemies. But 
Wirz had it in his power at least to allow 
his victims the enjoyment of fresh air 
and pure water. Instead of this he 
huddled them together under conditions 
of indescribable filthiness, caused the 



brook which ran through the prison yard 
to be polluted, and when he saw the 
wretched skeletons with hair and beards 
matted with ordure and dying by the hun- 
dreds every week, he gloated over their 
misery, and declared : "I am killing more 
Yankees here than Lee is killing at the 

We commend these facts to the 

Georgia Daughters of the Confederacy, 
and we would remind them of something 
else that is a matter of record. So dreadful 
was the condition of the Union prisoners 
in 1864, that a distinguished Georgian, 
Mr. Alexander H. Stephens, Vice-Presi- 
dent of the Confederacy, wrote to an- 
other well-known Georgian, General 
Howell Cobb, urging that the prisoners 
be released and sent North under a strict 


may venture to point out to them that 
they have made a serious mistake in 
choosing Wirz as an excuse for reviving 
bitter feelings. There is another man 
connected with the story of the Civil 
War who is far more hated at the North 
than Wirz. His name, in fact, is never 
spoken of except with execration. We 
are surprised that the Georgia Daughters 
of the Confederacy should have over- 
looked him, and that they should not have 
reared a still more lofty monument to 
him. His name is John Wilkes Booth. 

Several months ago Mr. James L. Ford 

reviewed in these pages a book of short 

stories called At the 

„ el Actors' Boarding House, 

Gran j* M i™ ," dC " ^"T 

Mr. Fonl very justly 

praised the book ; and yet 

somehow we feel that he did not praise 

it quite enough ; and therefore we are 

parole, since to keep them in Anderson- 
ville was infamous. To this suggestion 
General Cobb himself partially assented. 
This, then, represents the opinion of hu- 
mane and honourable men who were 
Southerners and Georgians. When the 
Georgia Daughters of the Confederacy 
have unveiled their monument, it will 
not be a memorial to Wirz, but rather 
a lasting proof of the vindictiveness, the 
narrow-mindedness, and the ignorance of 
which some women are capable. As a 
matter of fact, we do not for a moment 
suppose that the Georgia Daughters of 
the Confederacy care anything for Wirz. 
They have singled him out because they 
. know that his name is loathed and 
hated all through the North, and they 
wish to gratify an undying feeling of re- 
sentment. When they hear what North- 
ern men and women say about them, they 
will be delighted ; for they will have done 
just what they meant to do— that is. to 
touch us on the raw. Nevertheless, we 


going to say a little more about it. We 
do not find fault with any one who. after 
carelessly turning over its pages, throws 
it aside as being ephemeral and rather 
cheap. It is badly printed. Its stories are 
obviously dashed off to meet the require- 
ments of the daily press. Some of them 
are obviously written merely to fill space. 
Nevertheless, when you read them care- 
fully you will see that here is a writer who 

has something new and fresh to tell, and 
who can give yon a section of real life 
in the raw, from personal experience. If 
Miss Green would only take a little more 
time to compose, she would win, and she 
would deserve to win, a very large circle 
of readers. N'o one before has given us 
so realistic a picture of the existence 
which centres around Irving Place — the 
loves, the jealousies, the makeshifts, and 


ries of the vaudeville performers 
<e up a little world in themselves. 
> no adventitious literary colour 

sketches, and none is needed. 
ing is set down quite pitilessly. 
e Shine's boarding house is a 
;m which becomes just as real to 
e Maison TelHer, or the Pension 
We come to know the blon- 
dies washing; out their stockings 
jvash-bowl, or fighting for first 
table where they are served with 
1 eggs and "cawfy." We seem 

met the gentlemen who are 
g off" Mrs. Dc Shine for an 
board bill, and currying favour 
■ by petting her wheezy poodle, 
he slang in the book is something 
us. far surpassing anything which 
Ted the mind of Mr. George Ade, 
e of it is so professional as al- 
need a commentary. But there 
i here, and there is humour, and 
een has done for one section of 
rk what was done years ago for 
section by Messrs. Harrigan and 

Hart, of whom Mr. Howells wrote with 
sympathetic appreciation. Why, indeed, 
should we read seriously the ballads of 
a Parisian such as Arisiide Bruant and 
regard them as the last word of natural- 
istic poetry, and then neglect or fleer at 
these stories by Miss Green, which are 
far more interesting and which omit the 
outrageousness and the blasphemy which 
make Bruant's verses unnecessarily ex- 
ecrable. We should like to have the ap- 
preciative reader turn to four stories in 
this book by Miss Green, and read them 
carefully. They are "Making the Prince 
into a Good Sport," "The Code of the 
Hills." "Mary Had to Have Her Broad- 
way," "The Rival Landladies," and "A 
Woman of the Hills." After reading 
these, it will be impossible not to read the 
rest, and to make the acquaintance of 
Diamond Flossy, Emma the Slavey. Ana- 
belle the telephone girl, and Allen and 

When this book first appeared, very 
many of those who read it asserted that 
Helen Green was a pseudonym, and that 
the book must have been written by a 
man. No woman, they said, could have 
known so intimately the rough life of the 
Far West, the ways of swindlers, and 
the thousand and one details of a certain 
type of professional actor. Nevertheless, 
they were wrong. Miss Helen Green is 
a writer on the staff of the Morning Tele- 
graph, with which she has been connected 
for more than three years. Her experi- 
ences, however, have been remarkably di- 
versified. She began, when only four- 
teen, breeding horses in South America. 
After that, she went to the Canadian 
Klondike and took up gold mining. Later 
she worked an opal mine in northern 
Idaho, and spent a year or more in a 
mining camp in Nevada. In 1900, she 
travelled around the world, and finally 
settled in Colorado, where she bought a 
house with a bit of land, ten miles out- 
side of Denver, where for several years 
she has spent her vacations. She is in- 
tending now to purchase a ranch in 
eastern Nevada. As a special writer for 
the New York Herald, she formed a 
large acquaintance with theatrical people, 
the results of which are to be seen in the 


book which we have mentioned. Miss 
Green is now in her twenty-sixth year, 
and has compressed into a little more than 
two decades more experience and obser- 
vation than usually belong to a dozen or- 
dinary lives. If what she has written has 
not yet received serious notice, this is due 
to the timidity and conventional tradi- 
tions of those persons who are usually 
called critics, but who confuse their own 
dulness of perception with "the dignity 
of literature." 

The announcement of a new novel by 
Frank Danby (Mrs. Frankaii) is in 

itself always a matter of 
A New considerable interest, and 

Frank Danby in the case of The Heart 
Book of a Child, which is to 

appear some time this 
spring, there is, in addition, a story. The 
late Owen Hall, the author of The Geisha, 
The Gaiety Girl, The Little Cherub, 
Floradora, The Silver Slipper, The Girl 
from Kay's and many other popular 
musical comedies, was a brother of Mrs. 
Frankau. In the early part of last year 

he fell in poor health, and although the 
illness was not regarded as serious, Mrs. 
Frankau suggested he should accompany 
her to Nauheim. They decided upon 
three weeks at Harrowgate, where the 
Nauheim treatment is carried on, as a 
preliminary, and in the first few days 
there planned to write a book together 
that should deal with the life of a Gaiety 
girl from the inside. In three days the 
plan of the story had been sketched out, 
and Mrs. Frankau credits her brother 
with doing the main part of this work. 
On the evening of the fifth day. in their 
rooms at Harrowgate, the two discussed 
with some little vehemence what should 
be the end of the heroine. Upon this 
point they differed entirely. Mr. Owen 
Hall thought that the Gaiety girl who 
married a peer, however virtuous and 
self-respecting she had been up to that 
point, would infallibly fall morally when 
she was exposed to the far greater temp- 
tations of a society life. Mrs. Frankau, 
on the other hand, argued that indi- 
vidual character and temperament would 
tell. They discussed the matter until 
midnight, when Mr. Owen Hall retired, 


and Mrs. Frankau sat up and wrote a 
short synopsis of the end of the story 
as she saw it. In the morning Mr. Owen 
Hall was discovered by his valet dead in 
bed. An aneurism, unsuspected and un- 
diagnosed, had burst. 

it." It was not only that the end, about 
which they had debated, was difficult to 
arrive at, but the whole character and 
development of the story assumed a dif- 
ferent aspect. As was the case with 
Dr. Phillips and Pigs in Clover, many of 


In the first spasm of shock and grief 
Mrs. Frankau abandoned the projected 
book. When, three months later, she 
was persuaded to take it up again, to use 
her own words, "she found it would not 
come in the way her brother had arranged 

■rs of The Heart of a Child 
are drawn from life. Lady Dorothea, 
for instance, was a well-known figure in 
London society a few years ago. If she 
were not guilty actually of the crime at- 
tributed to her in the book, she has been 


guilty of so many social misdemeanours 
that she deserves the fate that is meted 
out to her here. Colonel Forbes and the 
case in which he figured prominently re- 
vived an un forgotten scandal. 


In some notes about Mrs. Frankau 
which appeared in The Bookman four 
or five years ago we spoke of her quarrel 
with George Moore, whose literary dis- 
ciple she had been. In a short autobiog- 
raphy which she has recently written she 
makes no allusion to the quarrel, but 
gives George Moore the credit for the 
publication of Dr. Phillips, her first suc- 
cess. The book was written by Mrs. 
Frankau to amuse her husband. He had 
broken his leg and was suffering from 
the tedium of a long convalescence. She 
wrote the chapters in the afternoon when 
he was resting, and read them to him 
in the evenings when they w r ere alone. 
All the characters were drawn from life. 
It was her amusement to see him recog- 
nise them under their different aspects 
and in the new circumstances that she 
invented for them. About this time 
George Moore was in the habit of visiting 
the Frankaus occasionally. He was then 
engaged in writing A Drama in Muslin. 
He is a very conscientious worker, keen 
for the "human document." One of his 
heroines had to write a letter to a friend 
with a certain confession in it. The 
words she would use, and the exact way 
she would express herself, puzzled and 
escaped him. Mrs. Frankau wrote such 
a letter as she thought he wanted and 
sent it to him. In his enthusiastic ac- 
knowledgment he added a postscript : "I 
am sure you could write a novel; why 
don't you?'' This led her to show him 
the first few chapters of Dr. Phillips, 
and it was he who took it to the pub- 
lisher. The book was very widely re- 
viewed and had a tremendous sale. It 
ran through seven English editions in a 
few months, and over one hundred thou- 
sand copies were sold in America. Mrs. 
Frankau received altogether £25 for it, 
having sold the book outright. 


Probably none of Mrs. Frankau's char- 
acters has left a stronger impression on 
readers than Louis Althaus, the "veneered 

cad in a golden frame" of Pigs in Clover. 
In her autobiography Mrs. Frankau tells 
us something of the original of this char- 
acter. It was after she had lost interest 
in the "Independent Theatre," the first 
of all London society's form for the im- 
provement of the drama, that she made 
the acquaintance of a brilliant violinist, 
and wasted a year or two trying to dis- 
cover the secret of his curious existence. 
He was quite an extraordinary person- 
ality. To use Mrs. Frankau's words, "he 
had, so to speak, the finest ear and the 
crudest eye of any one I ever met. He 
lived supremely happy and self -con tent 
in quite impossible surroundings, spend- 
ing innumerable hours before a looking- 
glass playing upon his little wood and 
catgut instrument, letting the pageant of 
life pass him unheeded. The good and 
evil in him, his superficial amiability and 
difficult, strange temper, his constantly 
asseverated love of money and passionate 
belief in its desirability, combined with 
his utter carelessness as to making or 
keeping it, made him psychologically the 
most interesting human study. I subse- 
quently used him for Louis in Pigs in 
Clover, although he was quite incapable 
of Louis's crime and is really generous 
and completely honest. He sat, as it 
were, for the head; the figure was ob- 
tained elsewhere. But from the time I 
met him I supposed another novel was 
inevitable. Following quite consciously 
in George Moore's footsteps, I, too, have 
always felt the necessity for a human 
model from which to paint." 

The Story 
of the 

No matter what the exact truth is 
about the present condition of the Lon- 
don Times, whether the 
recent announcement that 
Sir Arthur Pearson had 
become the master of its 
destinies was premature 
or otherwise an indiscretion, the situation 
in regard to that famous newspaper is 
unquestionably one that would shock the 
Rriton of i860, or thereabouts, if he 
were to confront it, almost as much as 
if he were to return to find a British Re- 
public or to witness the realisation of the 
battle of Dorking. For from the first 
decade of the nineteenth century until the 



later eighties the Times was not a news- 
paper in the accepted sense so much as it 
was a national institution. Bulwer-Lytton 
said that if he desired to leave to remote 
posterity some memorial of British civ- 
ilisation, he would prefer not England's 
docks, nor her railways, nor her public 
buildings, nor even the palace in which 
she held her sittings, but a file of the 
Times. In Bulwer's novels, in Dickens's, 
in Thackeray's, the Times appears in the 
light of an integral part of the English 
social system. Any other newspaper 
might be regarded as an individual busi- 
ness enterprise, the exploitation of which 
in a work of fiction would be as much 
out of place as suspiciously generous 
allusions to the establishment of some 
eminent Bond Street bookmaker. But to 
write about the Times was like speaking 
of the Royal Family, or the House of 
Lords, or the Tower. Heroes and hero- 
ines of social position were ushered into 
the world and out again through the 
medium of its columns. In hours when 
he should have been more diligently em- 
ployed Mr. Arthur Pendennis dawdled 
over it in his chambers in the Temple ; it 
changed the course of events by bringing 
to Newcome the news of the death of 
Lady Kew ; it was a substantial part of 
the Lares and Penates set up by the 
Bayneses, the Bunches, and the Mac- 
Whirters during their months of exile in 
Continental cities. Punch summed up 
the national attitude in the skit on the 
British tourist who found himself being 
overcharged and threatened : "]e paye, 
but je write to the Times!' Nor was this 
remarkable prestige entirely lost even 
after the publication of the fraudulent 
Parnell letters. It is not so many years 
ago that the story was current that Mr. 
W. W. Astor was ambitious to control 
the "Thunderer." 

"How much money will it take to buy 
the Times?" he is said to have asked. 

"Sir," replied the Mr. Walter then 
reigning, "enough money for that pur- 
pose has never been coined." 

The history of the London Times has 
been the history of a family, and what- 
ever may have been the political condition 
of England at a certain period or whoever 

may have been the editor in charge, even 
when that editor was a Barnes or a De- 
lane, its story will be divided into the 
reigns of John Walter the First, John 
Walter the Second, John Walter the 
Third, and Arthur Walter. In 1784 the 
first Walter, who had been a merchant 
and publisher by turns, and who, as an 
underwriter, had been ruined by the cap- 
ture of an English fleet by a French 
squadron, purchased Printing House 
Square. After an unsuccessful attempt 
to print books by means of type repre- 
senting monosyllables and short words 
instead of letters, he turned his attention 
to journalism and in January, 1785, 
issued the first number of the Daily Uni- 
versal Register. Three years later the 
name of the paper was changed to the 
Times. The first few years of the 
paper's existence gave but little promise 
of its future prosperity and greatness. 
As a result of his telling the truth 
about the powerful Dukes of York, 
Cumberland, and Gloucester, John Wal- 
ter the First was put in the public pillory 
at Charing Cross and subjected to the 
horrors of Newgate Prison, whence after 
a period of sixteen months* confinement, 
he was released at the instance of the 
Prince of Wales. This John Walter died 
in 181 2, but nine years before he had re- 
tired from the management of the paper 
to be succeeded by his son, then twenty- 
eight years of age. John Walter the 
Second was, in a measure, the pioneer of 
modern journalism. He kept a light cut- 
ter running to and fro across the Chan- 
nel during the war with France, obtain- 
ing French newspapers from the local 
fishermen and supplying exclusive infor- 
mation at a time when French news- 
papers were contraband in England. The 
news of Mack's surrender at Ulm in 
1805 was printed in the Times five days 
before the official information reached 
the government. The paper grew steadily 
in power. It could not be influenced and 
it came to be feared. In 1810 an attempt 
was made to curb its independence. No 
letters intended for it were permitted tQ 
go into England. Captains of all incom- 
ing ships were forced to surrender des- 
patches addressed to the Times. The 
government did everything in its power 
to injure the paper, at the same time in- 



timating to Mr. Walter that he could 
have his despatches delivered promptly as 
a matter of governmental favour. The 
Times's only response to this approach 
was to send out more special correspon- 
dents and to beat the official despatcher 
oftener than ever. The Times man, 
Henry Crabb Robinson, who went to Al- 
tona in 1807 and sent to the paper an 
account of the military operations along 
the Elbe, may be said to have originated 
the war correspondent's profession. 

Two years after Waterloo, the editor- 
ship of the Times was assumed by 
Thomas Barnes, who remained in the 
chair until he was succeeded by John De- 
lane in 1 841. One of the striking chap- 
ters in the paper's history was the part 
it played in the passing of the Reform 
Bill in 1832. The Times has never been 
a party organ, and during this crisis its 
expression was that of fearless, indepen- 
dent opinion. A year later Greville wrote 
of an article in the Times that it made "as 
much noise as the declaration of a power- 
ful Minister, or a leader of the Opposi- 
tion could do in either House of Parlia- 
ment." During 183 1 the Times had stead- 
ily resisted repeated attempts on the part 
of the Tories to enlist its influence. The 
Duke of Wellington, who was Prime 
Minister, was one of the last to hold out 
against recognising its growing power. 
When Greville, in 1834, urged him to 
seek the support of Barnes, the Duke ad- 
mitted that he had made a mistake and 
added that he did not think the Times 
could be influenced. At another time he 

said: "The might be played 

with, but not the Times; Barnes is the 
most powerful man in the country." 

Great as were the influence and power 
of the Times in the earlier part of the 
century, the paper reached its apogee 
during the editorship of John Delane, 
which extended from 1841 to 1877. 
Among the great deeds of these years 
may be mentioned the Times's campaign 
during the railway mania of 1845 > ^ e 
paper's struggle with the French Govern- 
ment in the matter of the delivery of its 

news from the East; its services in ex- 
posing inefficiency and corruption during 
the war in the Crimea; and its bringing 
about the downfall of the Aberdeen Min- 
istry. In 1845, Guizot, Louis Philippe's 
Prime Minister, resenting the paper's 
hostile attitude toward the French Gov- 
ernment, took measures to delay the de- 
livery of Times despatches from the Pun- 
jab. In order to evade this delay, Mr. 
Walter organised a service which brought 
the news from India to England without 
once touching French territory. A mes- 
senger met the English mail packet at 
Suez, and as soon as the Times consign- 
ment was handed to him, he rode with 
it on a dromedary to Alexandria — a dis- 
tance of nearly two hundred miles — 
thence sailing in an Austrian steamer to 
a port near Trieste, and making his way 
to London via Ostend and Dover. On 
October 31, 1845, Guizot, to his aston- 
ishment and humiliation, read in the 
columns of the Times news which only 
appeared later in the Paris journals. 

At the outbreak of the Crimean War 
the Times sent William Howard Russell, 
afterward unpleasantly known in this 
country as "Bull Run Russell," to the 
front, and his letters had the effect of 
arousing all England to indignation over 
the condition of the troops. There was 
gross mismanagement and inefficiency in 
the commissariat, and the Times corre- 
spondence awakened the conscience of 
the British nation to the sufferings of the 
half-starved, ill-clad men of the rank 
and file of the army. "Howard's letters," 
wrote one historian, "were no mere 
catalogues of battles lost and won; 
they did not enumerate the dead 
and wounded in the soulless accents of 
statistics. They brought the actuality of 
the war in Russia — the whole story of 
pain and horror and despair — into the 
very heart of England. Nor was the 
value of these descriptions confined to 
their power of conveying to the public 
true impressions of what actually passed ; 
for, besides possessing a talent for narra- 
tion unmatched until then in the annals 
of English journalism, Russell was an 
acute and unsparing critic of military 



operations. He met the indignation and 
exasperation of the Headquarters Staff 
at the audacity of his condemnations with 
an unflinching courage that was .in com- 
plete accord with the traditions of the 
paper he represented. Delane himself, 
as well as Kinglake, went out to the 
Crimea, and while the historian was not- 
ing minutely the disposition of the troops 
in the battle of the Alma, the Times cor- 
respondent was writing his memorable 
account of that engagement seated at a 
plank placed by two sappers across a 
couple of barrels to serve as a table." 

In his somewhat sensational Memoirs, 
M. de Blowitz gave an inside account 
of some of the great "beats" which aug- 
mented the Times's fame. De Blowitz's 
connection with the paper as Paris corre- 
spondent began in 1871, at the close of 
the Franco-Prussian War, and although 
the special privileges granted him by 
statesmen like Thiers were undoubtedly 
due rather to the position of the paper 
for which he wrote than to any great lik- 
ing or admiration for the man himself, 
his sagacity as a journalist and his ser- 
vices to the Times and to the cause of 
European peace cannot with justice be 
questioned. There is no reason to doubt 
his accounts of the French War Scare of 
1875 when Moltke had mapped out the 
plan of an immediate and unprovoked at- 
tack on France, of the rage of the Due 
Decazes when he learned of England's 
secret purchase of the Suez Canal shares, 
and although there was a fishy ring to 
his story of how he secured his great 
"beat" on the Berlin Treaty of 1878, the 
fact remains that through his agency the 
Times was able to print the full text of 
the treaty two hours before it had been 
signed by the Congress of Ministers in 

A phase of the subject of vast interest 
is the peculiar organisation of the Times. 
It is understood that the various share- 
holders of the paper have drawn their 
profits from various departments; that 
to one has belonged the earnings of the 
"Birth and Death" column, to another the 
Dramatic Page, to another the Literary 

Page, to another the Financial Page. In 
an article written about fifteen years ago 
for McClurJs Mr. James Creelman enu- 
merated the members of the Times staff ; 
and its organisation is probably much the 
same to-day. First there is the Editor, 
who has absolute control, but who writes 
nothing himself. Chief among his as- 
sistants is the Foreign Editor, and then 
comes the Financial Editor. There are 
six permanent editorial writers, and five 
others "on call." In addition the editor 
at times employs famous experts to write 
on their specialties. Some idea of the 
handsome remuneration that a leader 
writer on the Times receives for his 
work is suggested by a passage in the 
biography of James Macdonell, Jour- 
nalist. At the time Macdonell was not 
even on the regular staff, but merely con- 
tributed four or five leaders a week. Yet 
these, he said, assured him a handsome 
income. After the leader writers come 
the intermediate grades — the Colonial 
Editor, the ecclesiastical news writer, the 
agricultural writer, the art critic, the 
council of five military experts, the naval 
writer, the dramatic critic, and the geo- 
graphical writer. In the legal department 
there are eighteen trained law reporters 
for the civil courts, seventeen for the 
police courts, and eight for the assizes. 
London is mapped out into nineteen dis- 
tricts and to each district a man is as- 
signed to cover all news outside of the 
regular departments. Then there are the 
labour reporter, the golf reporter, the 
cricket reporter, the football reporter, and 
the special writers for fires and railway 
accidents. Finally in each of the six 
hundred and seventy electoral districts of 
Great Britain there is a Times repre- 

A famous Times story, a story which 
suggests very strongly a certain chapter 
of George Meredith's Diana of the 
Crossways, has to do with Lord Ran- 
dolph Churchill when he was Chancellor 
of the Exchequer under Salisbury. 
Churchill had become dissatisfied with 
his chief, and on the night of Decem- 
ber 22. 1886, he drove to the Times office 
and told Mr. Buckle, the editor, that he 
had decided to resign and was going to 



give the Times the privilege of announc- 
ing his resignation exclusively in the 

"Your attitude will be friendly to me, 
of course ?" he asked. 

" Not at all," said Mr. Buckle. 

"But for such a piece of news ! Why, 
there is not another paper in England 
that would not be grateful." 

"That is true. This news is very im- 
portant, and will make a great sensation. 
But if you wish you can take it to some 
other paper and we shall not print a 
word of it. Only the Times cannot be 

"At least," said Lord Randolph, "you 
will let me see to-night what you are 
going to say editorially." 

"Not a word before it is printed," re- 
plied Mr. Buckle. Churchill was obliged 
to yield, and the next morning the Times 
printed the news of his action and an edi- 
torial censuring him for deserting his 
party leader. 

While in a political sense the prestige 
of the Times was impaired by the publi- 
cation of the Darnell letters, it maintained 
its dignity until it became involved, a few 
years ago, in the enterprises of Messrs. 
Hooper and Jackson in exploiting the 
ninth edition of the Encyclopaedia Brit- 
annica. This work was generally re- 
garded as being both inadequate and 
obsolete, and as having outlived its use- 
fulness in America, and yet the Times 
undertook its sale and lent its great name 
and its resources to the task. That was 
bad enough, but with the formation of 
the Times Book Club the patience of the 
British public gave way altogether. The 
avowed object of the Times in organising 
the Book Club was to double its own 
circulation. When the English publish- 
ers, whose interests were vitally menaced 
by the venture, offered a stout opposition, 
the newspaper proclaimed itself the 
champion of cheap literature, printing 
figures to prove the publishers' rapacity. 
The struggle which followed has been 
exceedingly bitter and the result seems 
to be the thorough discomfiture of the 
Times. To it is unquestionably due the 
willingness of a number of the stock- 
holders to agree to a sale of the prop- 

erty. It is reported that the Times, under 
the new management believed to control 
it now, will break away entirely from 
any affiliations with the Encyclopaedia 
and the Book Club. 

An almost forgotten chapter in the life 
of the late Edmund Clarence Stedman 

had to do with his poem 
The "The Diamond Wed- 

Diamond ding" and the events sur- 

Wcdding rounding it. The poem 

appeared in 1859, when 
Mr. Stedman, as a young man of twenty- 
five or twenty-six, was working desper- 
ately hard at journalism in New York 
in order to support a young wife and in- 
fant child. The newspapers at the time 
were devoting a good deal of space to the 
extraordinary marriage of the beautiful 
Miss Bartlett, the daughter of a lieu- 
tenant in the United States Navy, to a 
Cuban by the name of Oviedo, who was 
very old and ugly, but also very rich. 
For his own amusement, and without 
the slightest idea of having it published, 
Stedman wrote a poem satirising the 
affair. A friend persuaded him to send 
it to the New York Tribune, where it 
was printed. The next morning Stedman 
literally awoke to find himself famous as 
the author of "The Diamond Wedding." 
The following extracts from the poem 
will indicate its nature: 

But now, True Love, you're growing old — 
Bought and sold, with silver and gold, 
Like a house, or a horse and carriage. 
Midnight talks, 
Moonlight walks; 
The glance of the eye and sweetheart sigh, 
The shadowy haunts with no one by, 
I do not wish to disparage; 
But every kiss 
Has a price for its bliss, 
In the modern code of marriage; 
And the compact sweet 
Is not complete 
Till the high contracting parties meet 

Before the altar of Mammon; 
And the bride must be led to a silver bower, 
Where pearls and rubies fall in a shower 
That would frighten Jupiter Ammon! 



I need not tell 
How it befell 
(Since Jenkins has told the story 
Over and over again, 
In a style I cannot hope to attain, 
And covered himself with glory!) 
How it befell, one summer's day, 
The King of the Cubans strolled this way, — 
King January's his name, they say, 
And fell in love with the Princess May, 
The reigning belle of Manhattan; 
Nor how he began to smirk and sue, 
And dress as lovers who come to woo, 
Or as Max Maretzek and Jullien do, 
When they sit, full-bloomed, in the ladies' 
And flourish the wondrous baton. 
* * * * * 

She stood such a Are of silks and laces, 
Jewels, and golden dressing cases, 
And ruby brooches, and jets and pearls, 
That every one of her dainty curls 
Brought the price of a hundred common 

Folks thought the lass demented! 
But at last, a wonderful diamond ring, 
An infant Koh-i-noor, did the thing, 
And, sighing with love, or something the 

(What's in a name!) 
The Princess May consented. 

On account of the sensation made by 
The Diamond Wedding/' Lieutenant 
Bartlett, the father of the bride, was furi- 
ous, and sent Mr. Stedman a challenge to 
fight a duel. The young journalist re- 
plied with a prompt acceptance. The 
naval officer, however, finally backed out 
on the ground that Stedman's family was 
not socially the equal of his own. Many 
years later Stedman and Mrs. Oviedo, 
who had become a widow, met and be- 
came very good friends. The bride of 
"The Diamond Wedding" was herself of 
a literary turn of mind, and contributed 
to the magazines. Another strange cir- 
cumstance connected with the affair was 
the fact that Lieutenant Bartlett met his 
death as the indirect result of a friendly 
action on the part of Stedman. During 
the war the officer went to Washington 
to obtain authority from the Navy De- 
partment to raise a thousand men as 
mariners as a basis for a naval brigade 


for use in the Union Army. Stedman, 
who was then in confidential relations 
with the Government, introduced him to 
Secretary Cameron and Secretary 
Welles, and these heads of the War and 
Navy departments gave him the re- 
quested authority. He was put in charge 
of the Rip Raps at Fortress Monroe, 
where he met his death by falling off the 

While as a general rule we are in- 
clined to deplore the rashness of the au- 
thor who, in order to se- 
cure the publication of a 
Archibald novel which is met with 

Marshall repeated rejection, him- 

self turns publisher, 
there have been a number of notable ex- 
ceptions. Among these there is the case 
of Mr. Archibald Marshall, whose Exton 
Manor, which has been so successful in 
England, is about to appear in this coun- 
try. In 1901 Mr. Marshall wrote The 
House of Merrilees. For two years the 
book went the round of the publishers. 
It was rewritten in 1904 and began to go 
the round again. Finally Mr. Marshall 
and two others founded in 1905 the pub- 
lishing house of Alston Rivers. The 
House of Merrilees was the first book is- 
sued by the new firm. It had a very wide 

Mr. Marshall is a Cambridge man, and 
his name is another in that long literary 
list by which Cambridge has so far out- 
stripped her great rival, Oxford. Mr. 
Marshall's college at the University was 
Trinity — the college of Tennyson, 
Thackeray, and Macaulay. In the same 
"Great Court" in which the young under- 
graduate had his rooms were the rooms 
in which Thackeray lived, and Marshall 
tells of how he used to pass them and 
wish that he might follow in the great 
satirist's footsteps. He has always re- 
tained a great affection for Cambridge, 
and his first book, Peter Binney, Under- 
graduate, published in 1899, has been de- 
scribed as the Cambridge Verdant Green. 

After leaving the University Mr. Mar- 
shall went into business, but soon found 



that he had no aptitude for it. He spent 
a year in Australia and returned to Eng- 
land bv wav of the United States, where 
four of his father's brothers and one sis- 
ter had settled years before. While in 
this country he stayed chiefly in Minne- 
apolis. In 1897 he came to America 
again with R. C. Lehmann, when Mr. 
Lehmann was here for the purpose of 
coaching the Harvard University crew. 
At one time Mr. Marshall intended to 
take orders in the Church of England, 
but eventually settled down to write. In 
1902 he was married and went to live at 
Beaulieu in the New Forest, the "Exton" 
of Exton Manor. In the summer-time 
he lives in a transmogrified group of 
coastguard cottages on the coast between 
Rye and Winchelsea. Henry James is a 
near neighbour. 


Mrs. Gertrude Atherton has been say- 
ing things about the American novel- 
ists of the present time. 
Literary Their sad condition 

Tyranny arouses in her a combi- 

nation of pity, indigna- 
tion and contempt. She 
writes : 

A certain arbitrary school of writers here 
has erected a narrow, conventional standard, 
a hard-and-fast rule to which the would-be 
author, with a message all his own, is bound 
as to some Procrustean bed, whose painful 
limitations are repressive of genius, and bring 
all who come within its influence to one dead 
level of sameness, of mediocrity, of hopelessly 
middle-class effort. 

We thought that we knew something 
about what is going on among American 
writers to-day, but we must confess that 
it would trouble us to track down to its 
lair this "arbitrary school of writers," 
who, according to Mrs. Atherton, de- 
prive our geniuses of "virility, original- 
ity, elemental fire." Somehow or other 
we cannot see that Mr. Jack London, for 
example, is being molested by anybody's 
"secret tyranny," or that he is lacking in 
elemental fire. And, so far as we have ob- 
served, the two Toms — whose last names 
are respectively Dixon and Lawson — 
are not wriggling helplessly in a Procrus- 
tean bed. And as for the public at large, 
it seems to purchase with great cheerful- 

ness the books of Mr. Tarkington and of 
Mrs. Atherton herself. Can it be that 
Mrs. Atherton has what some persons 
call a "grouch"? Or is the main diffi- 
culty, perhaps, to be found in the fact 
that most would-be authors have no 
"message of their own" at all, and that 
they are simply writing to fill space? 
We are pretty sure that genius, like 
love, will find the way, in spite of any of 
these secret tyrants — tyrants, so very 
secret, that it would doubtless trouble 
Mrs. Atherton to name them. 

Professor Thomas Day Seymour, who 
died recently, had been Hillhouse Pro- 

fessor of Greek at Yale 
The Late for many years. Those 

Professor who read the notice of 

Seymour his death must have been 

surprised to learn that 
he was still under sixty, for he was one 
of those men who early take on the ex- 
ternal appearance of age. Professor 
Seymour belonged to that diminishing 
band of Hellenists who mingle ripe cul- 
ture with an impressive erudition. Be- 
nignant and kindly in bearing, he was a 
conspicuous figure among American 
classical scholars and was rarely absent 
from any gathering of philologists. He 
had no whims or fads — unless one may 
so style his consistent vegetarianism — 
and his good sense was felt in the con- 
duct of those learned societies of which 
he was an influential member. He will 
be most distinctly associated with his 
long-continued and sympathetic inter- 
pretation of Homer, whose poems he 
loved, and concerning whom his last and 
most valuable book was written. 

The Simple Spellers have just issued 
another list — a small one of seventy-two 
words — which shows how thev would like 

to have others spell. It 
The is rather a good thing 

Lost that they should issue 

Legion this list just now, be- 

cause they were in 
danger of being forgotten entirely. A 
few more months, and nobody would be 
able to say precisely what the Simplified 
Spelling Board was — whether it was a 



body of human beings or some kind of 
an abacus. So this list is like a long 
whining wail coming out of some remote 
pit. Few of us will pay any attention 
to the list, but we are mildly interested 
to know that the Simple Spellers are 
still alive. In the statement which they 
have sent out along with their new mani- 
festo, they remark that their previous 
list has been adopted by twenty thousand 
persons. We never gave the Simple 
Spellers credit for a great deal of mod- 
esty; but we must confess that they have 
now understated their own case. We are 
sure that the number of illiterate and 
ignorant people in the country must be 
more than twenty thousand. We 
shouldn't be at all surprised if an edu- 
cational census were to reveal the fact 
that a million Americans had been spell- 
ing in the simple way even before this 
new list came out. The untutored million 
were probably writing about "tooth-ake," 
and "egs," and "sissors," and "tungs," 
and they will go on doing this, not be- 
cause of the Simple Spellers, of whom 
they have never heard, but because they 
do not know any better and have never 
received more than an elementary district 
school education of about two winter 

The death of Edward Alexander Mac- 
Dowell at the age of forty-six has re- 
The Late moved the foremost of 

Professor American composers and 

MacDowelland one .°? the ™ st ori £ inal 
Columbia musicians of our time. 

University ^ ^ c nienta ^ malady which 

came upon him three 
years ago had put a definite end to his 
career ; so that in one sense the world had 
lost him even before his final illness. 
The catastrophe occurred not very long 
after he had resigned the chair of 
music in Columbia University ; and there 
are some who honestly believe that the 
circumstances attending his resignation 
had some share in unbalancing his mind. 
It is only right that the facts should be 
explained quite accurately and fully; 
since those who loved MacDowell and 
admire his rare genius ought not to feel 
the additional distress which comes from 
a misapprehension of the truth. 

The letter which Professor MacDowell 
wrote at the time of his resignation on 
January 18, 1904, has been widely cir- 
culated in the press. In it there occur 
the following sentences : 

The research professorship offered me by 
the President [Dr. Butler] consisted of my 
lending to Columbia the use of my name, 
with no duties, and with no salary. I imme- 
diately refused it, as I was unwilling to 
associate my name with a policy I could not 
approve of. 

My department has been pecuniarily very 
successful and has given a large profit to 
the University over and above expenses. 

Manv of those who read these sen- 
tences must have believed that Columbia 
University had sought to enjoy the pres- 
tige of Professor MacDowell's reputa- 
tion without rendering him anything 
more than a titular equivalent, and this, 
in spite of the alleged fact that the De- 
partment of Music had added greatly to 
the resources cf Columbia. In other words* 
it has been privately asserted by certain of 
the musician's friends that he was treated 
with something less than the considera- 
tion due to so eminent an artist. The 
truth is that when Professor MacDowell 
wrote the words which we have quoted, 
he was already suffering from the malady 
which was soon to blot out his fine in- 
telligence; for the actual circumstances 
were very different from those which he 
then described. MacDowell's nature was 
extremely sensitive. He had the almost 
morbid temperament which often goes 
with genius. His gifts were wholly crea- 
tive rather than didactic. As far back 
as 1882, when he was still studying in 
Germanv, the death of his friend and 
teacher, Raff, threw him into a most ab- 
normal condition for manv months, 
though he was then a youth of only 
twenty-one, and physically strong. His 
mind, indeed, was exquisitely poised, and 
could not endure the excitement of the 
unexpected any more than it could bear 
the necessity of regular and formal aca- 
demic work. Routine was hateful to him. 
The thought that he must devote definite 
hours to fixed duties, filled him with a 
sort of horror. Hence it was unfortunate 
that he should have undertaken the func- 


tions of a professorship with an implied 
obligation to lecture and give instructions 
at definite times. 


So it happened that, after he accepted 
the chair of music at Columbia, he ceased 
composing. As a matter of fact, he had 
few students, for only now and then did 
one appear who was sufficiently advanced 
for him to teach. The average music 
student at Columbia required more ele- 
mentary training, and this was given, 
not by Professor MacDowell. but by his 
assistant. Therefore, in reality, he had 
no drudgery to perform. He was really 

free to come and go precisely as he 
pleased, to do just what he would, and 
to give himself up, whenever he desired, 
to his inspiration. Nevertheless, he felt 
hampered by his position, and he some- 
what morbidly exaggerated the duties 
which it entailed. Finally, recognising 
the fact that he could not compose and 
yet nominally even remain a teaching 
professor of music, he sent his resigna- 
tion to President Butler. 

His letter was a great surprise and he 
was asked not to make it absolute, but 
to accept a research professorship, giving 


MacDowell an income for the remainder 
of his life. These facts have been here 
set forth, not only in justice to the gov- 
erning body of Columbia University, but 
in justice also to Professor MacDowell 
himself ; since the manner of his resigna- 
tion is to be ascribed to the decline of his 
mental powers rather than to any desire 
on his part to act unfairly or to produce 
an impression that could but pain his 
friends and make it seem as though he 
had suffered an injustice. The present 
writer may add from his own experience 
that some time before these events oc- 
curred, Professor MacDowell gave evi- 
dence both in his manner of speaking and 
in his acts, of an unsettled state of mind. 
This evidence was not regarded very seri- 
ously at the time ; but looking back upon 
it, one cannot doubt that it foreshadowed 
the melancholy end of which all the 
world is now aware. 

him no duties to perform, but with an 
adequate salary, the amount of which was 
to be fixed after further consultation. 
Professor MacDowell agreed very cor- 
dially to this arrangement, which was. in- 
deed, equally advantageous to him and to 
the University. But already his mind 
had become abnormal; and very soon, 
without waiting for further action on 
the part of Columbia's trustees, and 
without conferring with the President of 
the University, he renewed his resigna- 
tion in a peremptory form, writing at the 
same time the letter to President Rutler 
which has been so widely circulated and 
' which is filled with the morbid fancies 
of a mental invalid. There was no oc- 
casion for Professor MacDowell to re- 
sign. He might have remained at Colum- 
bia in the enjoyment of an ample salary 
which would have given him abundant 
leisure to abandon teaching anil devote 
his entire time to composition. 
Of course at the moment no one sus- 
pected why Professor MacDowell acted 
as he did. His withdrawal was regarded 
with amazement and regret. Soon 
after, however, it became plain that he 
wa= the victim of an incurable disease, ll 
was then that President Pmtler as one of 
the trustees of the Carnegie Foundation 
moved and carried a resolution which 
suspended all the rules, and secured to 



Miss Sara Dean, author of Travers, 
which is reviewed elsewhere in this num. 
ber, returned to her home 
a^ in San Francisco, after 

Dean four years passed in 

Europe, Egypt, India 
and Burma, only a few 
months before the earthquake. She be- 
gan collecting the material for Travers 
the very day following the shock, when 
she turned her back on the consuming 
city and sought refuge in a tiny bungalow 
an artist friend had built on the sand 
dunes near the ocean. Miss Dean has 
given a vivid picture of the terrors of 
hunger and privation of these days. It 
was an actual shoulder- to- shoulder strug- 
gle for such poor rations as the place 
afforded. Eleven had sought refuge in 
the little bungalow, old women and chil- 
dren among them. One man of the bluff, 
pioneer type was stationed at a corner 
taking down the names of those who had 
fled to this remote district. These names 
were to be published in the newspapers, 
for families were far scattered and with 
absolutely no means of discovering one 
another's whereabouts. This pioneer saw 
Miss Dean taking notes and asked her 
what she was doing. She replied that 
she was going to write up the earthquake. 

-Tom a Photograph laken in British Columbia 

He shook his head gloomily : "Peter 
Dean's daughter isn't going to write any- 
thing that will help give poor old 'Frisco 
a black eye, is she?" 

This Peter Dean was a forty-niner 
who went to California from the East 
when still a boy. He tried his hand at 
mining, but that did not satisfy him long, 
and after many ventures he settled down 
to the life of a rancher. As late as the 
seventies he still drove great herds of 
cattle across the desert and the prairies. 
He and his men had more than one 
Indian fight. Once all were killed except 
him and his partner. For four years 
Miss Dean's mother took up her resi- 
dence in Boise City, Idaho, and here Miss 
Dean and one of her brothers were born. 
It was at an early age that these children 
entered upon the restless career that was 
typical of the region and time. For days 
the parents balanced them upon their 
knees to guard them against the lunges 
of the stage-coach that was bearing them 
up toward the Columbia River country, 
From that time the most of Miss Dean's 
life was spent in San Francisco. Her 
feeling toward the West and her attitude 
toward writing are best told in her own 
words: "The West, the real West, the 


vivid West, has always had an irresist- 
ible charm for me. The Jong stretches of 
sun-baked, glaring, alkaline desert fairly 
possessed me with a sense of their tragic 
beauty. A vast mesa with its grey-green 
sage-brush, cactus, and distorted, tube- 
like yucca, the unbelievably blue moun- 
tains tipping up at the horizon lifts up 
my entire being with a sense of its un- 
fathomable epic grandeur. All of nature 
takes on there a deeper tinge of mystery; 
I live there even more intensely than I 
do in mid-ocean. I would study half a 
lifetime if I might put on canvas one 
phase of this changing, unutterable 

Harold Begbi. 
Vigil, which is to 


the author of The 

iu published some time 

this month, is the son of 

a Suffolk rector, who 

was the son of General 

Teter James Begbie, a 

noted writer on Indian 

military history and a great linguist. His 

maternal grandfather, General George 

Swyney, was a contributor to the London 
Times. One of his relations was the 
famous Sir Matthew Begbie, chief justice 
of British Columbia, who is said to have 
hanged some of the men he condemned, 
and who certainly established single- 
handed law and order in British Colum- 
bia. Harold Begbie. connected almost 
entirely with military people, went to lit- 
erature and journalism practically with- 
out influence of any kind. His early 
efforts were almost entirely of a poetic 
nature, and they met with only moderate 
success; but while still a lmv he had 
verses in the Globe, Pall Mall Gazette 
and Pal! Mali Magazine. His first real 
opportunity in journalism nne as a re- 
sult of meeting E. Kay Robinson, under 
whose editorship of the Ciric and Mili- 
tary Gazette of Lahore, India. Rudyard 
Kipling won bis first fame. Harold Beg- 
bie's poem, "The Handy Man," published 
during the South African War, brought 
him into widespread notoriety. 
From the London Globe Mr. Begbie 


went to the London Daily Mail, where he 
passed two years of exceedingly active 
journalism. While with the Daily Mail he 
experienced thoroughly the whirligig of 
London, met everybody, saw everything, 
and lived in a round of excitement. 
While these two years were not entirely 
congenial to his temperament, they taught 
him a great deal of life. At present he is 
living and working in a Suffolk village 
on the North Sea. His methods of com- 

Sosition vary ; but this is an average day : 
reakfast, 8.30. Correct previous day's 
work. Luncheon, 12.30. A walk of ten 
miles. Tea, 4.30. Hard writing till 7.15. 
Change for dinner ; dinner at 7.30. 
Music. Work from 9.30 till 11 or 12 at 
night. His best hours for creative work 
are between 5 and 7 and after dinner. 
When engaged upon a novel he works 
incessantly, neglecting exercise and shut- 
ting himself away from his friends. He 
finds it always easier to write after read- 
ing a favourite author for several days. 

We print a picture from a copyrighted 
photograph of a bas-relief by Miss Wini- 
fred Holt, daughter of 
j. Henry Holt, the pub- *?*'■ °' W '"' M ^ Sin- 

clair, the author of / he 
Helpmate and The Di- 
vine Fire, for which Miss Sinclair sat to 
Miss Holt in England last summer. Miss 
Sinclair says that she likes this bas-relief 
better than she does any of the photo- 
graphs that have been taken of her. We 
also print a picture from a copyrighted 
photograph of a bas-relief by Miss Holt 
of Miss Helen Keller, who is well known 
as the author of her Autobiography, her 
Optimism and a number of magazine 
articles. Miss Holt is the secretary and 
organiser of the New York Association 
for the Blind, and also started the Buffalo 
Association for the Blind and the Lon- 
don Ticket Bureau for the Blind. The 
New York Association in its two brief 
years has already established the Blind 
Men's Workshop at 147 East Forty- 
second Street, and a central building with 
offices, salesroom for the work of the 
blind, etc., at 118 East Fifty-ninth Street. 
It has also carried out, under the immedi- 
ate supervision of Miss Edith Holt 
(Miss Winifred Holt's sister) the most 

complete and detailed census of the blind 
of New York State that has ever been 
taken. «> 

Something of a tempest has been 
stirred up recently by the action of 

Madame Marcelle Tin- 
Marcelle ayre, the very talented 

Tinayre and author of La Maison du 
the Ribbon Peche, in refusing, with a 

certain amount of rail- 
lery, the ribbon of the Legion of Honour 
awarded to her by the French Govern- 
ment. To appreciate the irritation caused 
by the attitude of Madame Tinayre one 
must "nderstand the almost passionate 



devotion of the majority of the French 
people to the Order. As M. Jules Claretie 
pointed out in commenting upon the 
affair, the national love for the Legion 
of Honour is a thing not to be ridiculed. 
One of the causes of the rancour of the 
army against the Bourbons after the over- 
throw of the Empire was their hostility 
to the Order and their ineffectual efforts 
to cheapen it. Madame Tinayre's letter 
to Hebrard, the director of the Temps, 
was flippant, in bad taste, but unquestion- 
ably amusing: 

Dear Sir: It is true, I am decorated. It 
is not my fault. If I had merited this very 
striking distinction, you know that I would 
have done nothing to have obtained it. 

When 1 was little I never went to the dis- 
tribution of prizes. The necessity of going 
upon a platform and receiving a red book 
and a green paper crown appeared to me 
ridiculous and annoying, because I am at 
once a little timid, a little proud and a little 
—what shall I say — a little don't care a rap 
(j' m'en fichie). I have always remained 
the same. Honours have never troubled my 
sleep, but when they have come to me I 
have accepted them in good grace and with 
an appreciation of those who offered them. 
Only I never could take myself seriously 
as a personage. The writer perhaps should 
be tempted by vanii 
at the writer, and i 
have the last word, 
decorated and the 

"Madame," said yesterday my dressmaker, 
so much moved that she plunged pins in 
my back, "Madame. I beg you to wear the 
red ribbon. It will be so becoming with 
your blnck dress." 

Not even this profound thought, over 
which I still meditate, has decided me to 
wear, even on the black dress, this "star of 
the brave." 

For it is the star of the brave, O Napo- 
leon! Madame de Stael, who is almost a 
man, did not have it. The woman-hating 
emperor must be suffering bitterly in the 
other world to see this cross on breasts that 
do not resemble — happily — the robust 
breasts of his grenadiers. This added grief 
I shall spare the shade of Napoleon, founder 
of the order. I will not wear this pretty 
ribbon and this pretty cross because I could 
no longer travel in a tram car or in the 

ty, but the w 

man laughs 

it is the won 

in who will 

. It is the w 

riter who is 

woman who 

will have to 



underground without arousing the curiosity 
of my neighbours. "Look," they will think, 
"there is a woman who has been a sister of 
mercy and has cured the plague-stricken. 
She is very young, all the same, to have 
been a cantiniere in 1870," 

No; that would be too annoying. 

In the first place, my little boy does not 
wish that his mother should be "different 
from the other ladies." He has said to me : 
"You are not going to wear that. That is 
for the men." 

Have I brought him up badly? Will he be 
an anti-feminist? He was present when I 
learned this great news. We had dined 
at a friend's and had taken him with us. 
On returning to our house I heard the tele- 
phone ring. It was a friend, who congratu- 
lated me. I thought that he was joking. 
My son went to get the Temps, and I knew 
of my new glory. 

Well, I slept the same as other nights, 
and the next morning I found myself much 
the same as the day before. I had not 
grown an inch, and I was chevalier 1 Ahl 
I assure you it appears funny to me to be 

Now I am going to tell you something: 
it is very amusing to be decorated — during 
the first few hours. But afterward, imme- 
diately afterward, it is terrible. You are 
ferreted out by reporters, by photographers, 
whom you receive without enthusiasm and 
who disarm you by saying, "You, too, have 
been a journalist." Well, yes, I have been. 
Don't let us prevent our confreres from carry- 
ing on their profession. Alas ! I begin to dribble 
t of having repeated so often the 

same speeches, and my house, my pretty old 
house of the eighteenth century, is tainted 
with the smell of flashlight powders. 

These are my impressions. I give them to 
you for what they are worth. They have 
the merit of sincerity. I should never have 
asked for the cross; I have dissuaded my 
friends from asking for it for me. and that 
is why I accept with pleasure these unex- 
pected New Year's gifts that I owe to 
M. Briand. It was good of him not to wait 
until I became an old woman. As for me, 
I shall go back to work. Shall I be par- 
doned for believing that a book well written 
honours an author more than all the decora- 
tion? I shall try to write a good book. 
Marcelle Tinayke. 
This is Anne Warner's own account of 
her activities during the year 1907. She 
does not tell of the first 
An Author's three months, but her 
Y ear story of her movements 

after the middle of April 
bears witness to the in- 
dustry of the modern author. She be- 




such a good time t 
occupied the next 
and sat with his 
knew. Then I c 

gins by telling of leaving Chicago on 
April 19th: 

I left for Chicago on the 19th, was there 
two days and then went to Indianapolis. I 
spent ten riotously happy days in Indian- 
apolis with my dearest friend and we had 
talking that the man who 
>m gave up going out 
■ to the keyhole— we 
to Chicago and ar- 
ranged Susan Clegg and a Man in the 
House' in eleven days. Then I went to 
New York and worked on the play for six 
weeks. "" I ought to add that in Chicago I 
"began'lj a new author whose stories are 
now being printed, and in New York T" 
"began" a new playwright whose play'Tias 
been staged — but, as DeWolf Hopper would 
say, "these little incidentals are hardly 
worth mentioning." Then I was ill for six 
or seven weeks, after which I wrote See- 
ing England with Uncle John, having 
done the necessary reading during my ill- 
ness. I finished the book September 7th 
and wrote eight short stories, and then, 

October 5th, I came East to see the play 

staged. I saw it staged. They told me 
that Clyde Fitch or some other body said 
that one's sensations were indescribable 
when one saw one's characters on the 
stage. My sensations certainly were inde- 
scribable. I have had a number of inde- 
scribable sensations lately. The amount of 
spiritual discipline to be extracted out of a 
successful farce is in itself a copious educa- 
tion. On my way home in November I 
stopped at Rochester and made a 40,000- 
word draft for a new book. Some one said, 
"Will it be funny?" and I said. "Not if I 
can help it." Now I am writing some short 
stories preparatory to beginning to really 
write that book. In spite of my desires I 
know that it's going to be funny in spots, 
and I feel like a child satiated with candy. 
But then, if candy agrees with children as 
well as humour agrees with most people, why 
shouldn't they have their fill? My place in life 
seems to be that of a filler anyway, and the 
word in all its meanings is a useful one. and I 
don't know that there is anything better to be 
done in the world than to be of use. 




Just at present there seems to be no 
profession so closely in touch with the 

outdoor life as that of 
literature. There is 
hardly a man writing 
books who is not de- 
scribed to us as being 
keen at golf, or motoring, or riding, or 
tennis, or mountain climbing. Xow we 
have a young woman. Miss Beth Ellis, 
the author of The Fair Moon of Bath, 
which is to be published this month, who 
sports her "Blue" for Oxford with as 
much right and authority as Messrs. 
Jones, Dillon and Wendell wear, respect- 
ively, the "Y," the "P" and the "H." 
Miss Ellis won her "Blue" for hockey, 
playing left wing for two years in the 
Oxford versus Cambridge match, when 
she was an undergraduate at Lady Mar- 
garet Hall, Oxford. Of apparently less 
importance in her university career was 
the fact that she was laureate for her col- 
lege. Miss Ellis describes herself as writ- 
ing at odd moments on loose scraps of 
paper, in trains and waiting-rooms. She 
draws up a synopsis of the story before- 
hand, but this is always entirely changed 
before the book is finished. The first few 
chapters, before she gets to know her 
characters, are extremely difficult : then it 
comes easily. Before writing, she reads 
up all the history of the period, and one 
or two books written during that period. 
To her the most miserable times are just 
before commencing a book, when she 
cannot decide on plot or period. She 
has a queer superstition that Febru- 
ary 1 8th is a very lucky date to begin a 
book, and generally writes her first page 
that day. 

Louise de la Ramee, who latelv died in 
extreme poverty at Florence, with no one 

to share her penury ex- 
cept a faithful sen-ant 
Ouida and a number of dog* of 

which she was passion- 
ately fond, had a strange 
and almost uncanny personality. Al- 
though her books were very widely read 
and quite as widely criticised, very few 
persons knew anything about her as a 
human being. She courted isolation. She 
was a hater of her kind, and especially 

of her own sex. Mutatis mutandis, one 
might compare her with Miss Havisham 
in Great Expectations; for Ouida took to 
seclusion as the result of an unfortunate 
love affair. Years ago, in fact before she 
became known as a writer, she was 
engaged to an Italian marquis. Before 
long, however, she discovered that he was 
unfaithful to her : and from that time she 
ate her heart out and tasted the bread of 
bitterness. Oddly enough, however, con- 
sidering that she was a woman, her ex- 
perience did not lead her to misanthropy 
but rather to misogyny. Her books de- 
serve a good deal more serious considera- 
tion than they have ever received at the 
hands of professional critics. Granting 
that she was over-intense and at times 
almost hvsterical, she nevertheless had an 
immense deal of dramatic power, and in 
her own way was a mistress of the story- 
teller's art. Her pages were never dull. 
From beginning to end they quivered 
with life and genuine emotion. Thou- 
sands of those who read them eagerly and 
felt their fascination admired her in se- 
cret, and only in public spoke of her in a 
tone of depreciation. It is rather inter- 
esting to know that Lord Tennyson had 
the courage of his convictions and was 
willing to confess that he read her novels 
with great interest. 

Of all the stories that she wrote we 
should single out as the very best Under 
Tzco Flags, published when she was 
twenty-seven, and Moths, which appeared 
when she was in her fortieth vear. These 
books represent two different manners. 
The first is theatrical to the last degree. 
It is all melodrama, but the melodrama 
is superb, and no one should be surprised 
that it continues to be successful in its 
dramatised form. The description of the 
race won bv Bertie Cecil's horse. Forest 
King, and that Qther passage which de- 
tails the daring desert ride of Cigarette, 
are trulv literature. On the other hand. 
Moths is a highly coloured picture of 
the loose cosmopolitan society which un- 
der the Second Empire displayed itself 
at Trouville and Compiegne. One can- 
not readily forget the brutal Prince Zour- 
off, the meretricious Ladv Dollv, the in- 
nocent young girl Vera, and the impos- 



sibly fascinating tenor, Correze. The 
story of Moths has a certain piquant 
flavour because some of its incidents rep- 
resent the current gossip of the time. 
Thus, the royal personage who swallows 
a flea in wine because the insect has been 
caught in the draperies of a lady who 
exclaims "Qui m'aime ravale!" was said 
to be the Prince of Wales, now King 
Edw r ard VII. Ouida had an intense rev- 
erence for the aristocracy of the vielle 
roche; and some of her heroes are ideali- 
sations — figures such as she thought 
these noble gentry ought to be. They are 
all magnificently handsome, languid, mus- 
cular, and deeply in debt. They live in 
gorgeous chambers where costly bric-a- 
brac and delicately scented missives from 
ladies are scattered carelessly about among 
heaps of gold pieces and bundles of Bank 
of England notes. These godlike persons 
talk (perhaps a little too frequently) 
about "their Order." They are bril- 
lant guardsmen, earls or overwhelming 
dukes, or at the very least, heirs to an- 
cient peerages. Ouida revelled in de- 
scribing them, and her description gave 
pleasure to many who accepted these pic- 
tures as authentic portraits. Of course 
they were quite absurd, almost as much 
so as her occasional quotations from the 
dead languages ; as for instance when in 
Chandos she says of a sinister statesman 
that while others took for their motto 
pro patria, his motto was always con- 
sistently pro ego ! But barring these and 
some other slips, Ouida was really a 
writer of much power, and it is only cow- 
ardice on the part of critics to refuse to 
recognise this truth. 

One smiles in recalling the fierce at- 
tacks which were made upon her for the 
alleged immorality of many of her novels, 
especially Moths. The present genera- 
tion, which absorbs without a quiver such 
books as The Secret Orchard and The 
Y*okc and Three Weeks, and the cheap 
coarseness of the woman who calls her- 
self Victoria Cross, would hardly venture 
to throw stones at Ouida now. Much of 
her dark and dim depravity is found 
rather in implications than in actual state- 
ments. She is rather fond of alluding 
mysteriously to the awful things which 

are contained in the pages of Suetonius 
and Tacitus; but it is quite improbable 
that she knew much about these authors, 
and it is still more certain that those 
who professed to be shocked by her 
knew even less. After a course in 
Zola and Maupassant and George 
Moore, Ouida's most flagrant pages 
seem rather like Sunday-school stories 
so far as anything concrete is con- 
cerned. She did not need, in fact, to 
gain readers by attempting a succes de 
scandale. Her novels are good enough 
to stand a fairlv severe test on their liter- 
ary merits. Perhaps there are few things 
more characteristic of her manner and 
of her prejudices than the following 
famous passage in Moths, where she con- 
centrates almost terrifically her genuine 
hatred of her own sex. 

Useless as butterflies; corroding as 
moths; untrue even to lovers and friends, 
because incapable of understanding any 
truth; caring only for physical comfort and 
mental intoxication; kissing like Judas, and 
denying in danger like Peter; tired of living, 
yet afraid of dying; believing, some in 
priests and some in physiologists, but none 
at all in virtue; sent to sleep by chlorodine 
and kept awake by raw meat and dry wines; 
cynical at twenty, and exhausted at thirty, 
yet choosing rather to drop dead in the 
harness of pleasure than fall out of the 
chariot-race for an instant; taking their pas- 
sions as they take sherry in the morning 
and bitters before dinner; pricking their 
sated senses with the spices of lust or 
jealousy, and calling the unholy fever Love; 
having outworn every form of excitement 
except the gambler's, which never palls, 
which they will still pursue when they shall 
have not a real tooth in their mouths nor 
a real hair on their heads, the women of 
modern society are perhaps at once the 
most feverish and the most frivolous, the 
basest and the feeblest, offspring of a false 


Surprise has been generally expressed 
that a writer whose books were so widely 
read should have died in abject poverty. 
Of course one reason for this is to be 
found in Ouida's reckless extravagance; 
yet, on the other hand, we should re- 
member that the amount of monev that 



she received from her books was much 
less than is generally supposed. She was 
much more popular in the United States 
than in England; and as her vogue oc- 
curred before the days of international 
copyright, she received little or nothing 
from her American sales. Perhaps this 
is one of the reasons why she so disliked 
Americans. At any rate, the circumstance 
gives point to a little story which years 
ago was told about her. An American 
lady, sojourning in Florence, sent her 
card in to Ouida and was received by the 
erratic novelist. After a few sentences 
had been exchanged, Ouida discovered 
that her visitor was an American. Im- 
mediately her manner changed and she 
said with the utmost bluntness : 

"I never receive Americans. I detest 
them. Be so good as to leave at once." 

Whereupon the American woman, hav- 
ing no particularly witty answer in readi- 
ness, retorted with equal bluntness, as she 
went out at the door : 

"Well, you ought to like Americans. 
They are almost the only people who 
read your nasty books !" 

Ouida's general conception of our 
people made them low, vulgar, and 
shoddy, divided largely between those 
who were wandering pedlars and those 
who belonged to a somewhat higher class 
who amassed huge fortunes by sticking 
pigs. Nevertheless, to her credit it must 
be said that one of the most decent char- 
acters in Moths is that of Fuschia Leach, 
an American heiress who talks in a 
strange dialect, who is bent on marrying 
an English peer, but who, nevertheless, 
turns out to be loyal, generous, and sin- 
cere. So, after all, Ouida could be fair 
even to one who was both an American 
and a woman. 

In A Matter of Fact Kipling told of a 
strange experience which befell three 

journalists on a tramp 
"The steamer somewhere in 

Flying the Southern Ocean. Be- 

Death" cause its existence is 

neither the point of the 
story nor its explanation, simply an in- 
cident of vital importance, no reasonable 
person ever thinks of challenging the 
monster, that, stricken to death by some 

submarine upheaval, comes up out of 
the sea, "blind, white and smelling of 
musk." But for the reason that it gives 
the final touch of solution to the series of 
very extraordinary preceding events, the 
prehistoric creature which makes its ap- 
pearance in the last chapter of Mr. Samuel 
Hopkins Adams's The Flying Death will 
unquestionably be greeted with a cer- 
tain amount of hostility by any one who 
takes up* the book in a fault-finding 
mood. On the other hand, the reader 
who has a liking for thrills in allopathic 
doses, and is thoroughly honest with 
himself in his reading, should find in the 
tale three or four genuinely exciting 
hours. One can trace the influence of 
the story back through The Mystery of a 
year or so ago to Robert Louis Steven- 
son's Treasure Island; as in The Mystery 
there is a trifle too much science, or 
pseudo-science, as you will; the style is 
possibly a little too lurid ; but taking it all 
in all, The Flying Death may be honestly 
recommended as about as good a yarn 
of the kind as will be found among the 
books of a season. Mr. Adams knows 
how to work up to his situations, he has 
given us half a dozen very clear-cut char- 
acters, the dialogue is brisk and unforced, 
there are some excellent touches of 
humour, and the picture of the bleak 
loneliness and desolation of Montauk 
Point at the end of Long Island is drawn 
with really remarkable vividness. As a 
preliminary measure we should advise 
the reader to go through the book with 
a sharp-bladed penknife and cut out the 
illustrations — the frontispiece, at all 
events. In the text Miss Dolly Ravenden 
impresses us as an exceedingly amiable 
and attractive young woman. At first 
sight we were inclined to take the 
artist's conception of her as a kind of 
symbolic nightmare, quite in keeping 
with the uncanny elements in the story. 
On second thought, and in a more char- 
itable mood, we suggest that she em- 
bodies admirably our idea of the Ogress 
of M. Sue's The Mysteries of Paris, or 
Mother Frochard of The Ttvo Orphans. 


The Magistrate's Own Case, by Baron 
Palle Rosencrantz, somehow recalls the 
very trite story of the German, the Eng- 
lishman and the Frenchman who were 



required to write a description of the ele- 
phant. None of the three had ever seen 
an elephant or possessed 
"The the slightest knowledge 

Magistrate's of the subject. The 

Own Case" Frenchman promptly 

went to the nearest zoo- 
logical gardens, surveyed the animal in 
captivity, interviewed the keepers as to 
its characteristics and habits and re- 
turned home to produce a very delightful 
and instructive article. The Englishman 
packed up his belongings and started off 
to investigate the elephant in its native 
jungle. The German locked himself up 
in his room and evolved an elephant out 
of his inner consciousness. The Magis- 
trate's Own Case, well done as it unques- 
tionably is, impresses us as being entirely 
too much a matter of the inner conscious- 
ness. Briefly, the outline of the story is 
as follows : Boys hunting for tennis balls 
in the park at Homburg find in the 
middle of a rhododendron bush the dead 
body of a young Englishman, Cecil Lak- 
ing, Seventh Baron Faringdon. The 
cause of death is a knife or dagger 
wound in the back, between the shoulder 
blades, and the fact that his pocket-book, 
containing a considerable sum in notes, 
and his jewelled watch have been un- 
touched excludes robbery as a motive. 
The investigation of the affair is in the 
hands of the magistrate of the district, 
De Fritz Sterner, who acts promptly, 
and as early as page 23 in a volume of 
three hundred pages has ordered the 
arrest of Helmuth Saarbrikcken. The 

remainder of the story is given up to the 
account of the investigation and trial. 
The lawyer for the defence shows that 
for the chain of circumstantial evidence 
against his client, Saarbriicken, another 
chain, just as damning, might be forged 
against De Sterner himself. In the end 
matters are somewhat cleared by allu- 
sions to an obscure Italian. Incidentally, 
the book is a brief against circumstantial 
evidence and lay juries. 
Owing to an oversight the photograph 
of President Roosevelt and John Muir 
on Glacier Point, Yosemite Valley, in the 
February Bookman, was not credited to 
the photographers Messrs. Underwood 
and Underwood, of New York. 
An acquaintance of Mr. John D. Rocke- 
feller is quoted as giving an account of 

what Mr. Rockefeller 
The said to him a month or 

Point of two ago at the close of 

View the financial panic. "I 

think." remarked Mr. 
Rockefeller, "that Mr. Pierpont Morgan 
deserves everybody's thanks for stepping 
in and preventing the panic from becom- 
ing far more serious. He used his re- 
sources very freely, and showed a great 
deal of courage in supporting the market, 
and keeping many financial institutions 
on their 'feet. This," continued Mr. 
Rockefeller sympathetically, "was all the 
more creditable to him, because Mr. 
Morgan is not a rich man." 


SHE happy ending is as 
I much an Anglo-Saxon 
a institution as Habeas 
I Corpus or the Family. 
I With the latter it stands 
particularly intimate 

3 relationship, since most 

happy endings on the English stage are 
synonymous with the founding of new 
families. It is different with the French. 
They, like ourselves, build up their plays 
out of the three factors of love, tribula- 
lation and marriage. But the French, 
being foreigners, must go and do things 
wrong end first ; so, instead of following 
the traditional English order as we have 
just given it, they adopt the sequence of 
marriage, tribulation and love, or, as they 
call it, amour. The Germans are in much 
the same case ; but that is to be expected 
of a nation which eats a light breakfast, 
goes to bed at noon, and places its verb 
at the end of the sentence. The Italian 
and Spanish drama is merely an imitation 
of the French. The Scandinavians and 
Russians also affect the unhappy ending, 
but that is because Norsemen and Slavs 
are never happy unless they are not. On 
the whole, we are justified in asserting 
that there is a Continental type of drama 
and an English type, and that the dis- 
tinction between the two consists in which 
end of the play is the happy one. In 
the English type it is the terminal end; 
in the Continental type it is the incipient 
end, the other end being known most 
often as the artistic ending. The English 
play may be summed up in the formula, 
"They lived happily ever after the de- 
parture of the other man (or woman) 
toward the conclusion of the last act." 
For the Continental play the formula 
would run : "They lived happily until the 
appearance of the third man (or woman) 
in the middle of the first act. 

The prestige of Continental literature 
and of the term "artistic" has imposed 
on Anglo-Saxon ideals. Our young 
dramatists are beset with the uneasy con- 
sciousness that their endings ought to 
be unhappy. And though their prac- 
tical sense fortunately leads them the 
other way, they feel that an apology, or 

at least an explanation, is necessary. 
When advanced critics denounce the 
happy ending as the conventional end- 
ing your young playwright has his trem- 
ors. When the unhappy ending is also 
brevetted the "artistic" ending he pre- 
pares to abandon the fight. When the 
unhappy ending receives its ultimate 
sanctification as the "logical" ending 
young Drama turgus packs up his tents 
and his royalties and flees into the night. 
And yet, just what are the rights of the 
artistic ending that it should go strutting 
about like a disdainful elder brother or 
the author of a first novel? Why, in 
essence, is unhappiness more artistic than 
happiness or death than life? If the 
standard be truth, then happiness and 
unhappiness are equally true. If our 
standard be the range of emotional ap- 
peal, the balance swings decidedly in 
favour of the happy ending, which 
pleases the great majority. Or, the 
dread suspicion rises, does the unhappy 
ending impress itself as artistic just be- 
cause it does not please the majority? 
Ninety per cent, of those who like 
Tristan und Isolde like it because most 
of the people they can think of do not. 
The man whose library furniture is all 
art nouveau derives his satisfaction in 
equal part from dull tones and heavy 
lines and from the consciousness that 
most people still use comfortable chairs. 
In Europe they hold that a suicide at the! 
end of a play is artistic because the bour-i 
geois want a marriage. Obviously, that 
is dishonest esthetics. 

But the "logical" ending? The heart 
sinks. The man who would deny that 
the logical ending is the right ending 
would deny that old men have grey 
beards and that their faces are wrinkled. 
So we won't deny that plays ought to 
end logically. But the question still 
comes, By what right has the un- 
happy ending taken to itself the sole title 
to be called logical? If an eccentric old 
man who, during three acts, has been 
snuffling about the stage with nothing 
particularly to do steps to the footlights 
in, the fourth act and presents the young 
lovers with a million dollars, the ending 



is inartistic and illogical; but if a play- 
wright drags a half-witted youth through 
three acts of discourse in order that in 
the fourth act he may shoot the heroine 
under the impression that she is a wild 
swan, the ending is artistic and logical. 
To make the hero, who has been con- 
victed of murder, obtain a reprieve from 
the governor and marry the girl who has 
remained true to him, an event that oc- 
curs once in a dozen times, if not more 
often, would be, on the stage, illogical. 
To have a man blow out his brains be- 
cause he is in love with the woman who 
had been his father's mistress, a coinci- 
dence whose ratio of probability is one 
to ten thousand, is logical. To win a 
woman by a sudden coup in Wall Street 
is illogical; to abandon a woman one 
loves on a sudden scruple is logical. An 
old uncle returning from Australia to 
London just in time to make the mar- 
riage of the poor, virtuous lovers possible 
is illogical ; but an old lover returning 
from Brazil to Paris just in time to make 
a fashionable wedding impossible is logi- 
cal. In short, good luck on the stage is 
illogical, bad luck is logical — an assump- 
tion we earnestly reject. We assert, on 
the contrary, that the happy ending is 
far more logical to the stage than the 
unhappy ending in that, for one thing, 
it is not irrevocably definitive. For if 
the fifth act closes with the marriage of 
the tried and troubled lovers, grumblers 
are at liberty to say, "Oh, well, it's not 
all over ; they will probably quarrel in a 
few weeks and he will leave her." That 
is a justifiable appeal from the decision 
of the dramatist to a Future in which 
all things are possible. But if the fifth 
act ends with death, what can one say? 

Logical or artistic endings in the sense 
•of inevitable endings there are none. We 
except the case — common enough, one 
must admit — in which the dramatist has 
begun with his ending and worked back- 
ward to his substructure. Otherwise, 
happy and unhappy endings, conventional 
-endings and artistic, are all arbitrary. It 
is the playwright's business to make us 
believe that the ending he has selected 
for reasons of his own is the logical one. 
Life is complex enough to offer him au- 
thority for any conclusion to his tale. 
Anything is possible if only the skilfbl 

artist will make it probable. Truth is 
stranger than fiction if only for the 
reason that the facts of life are con- 
tinually changing, while fiction is still 
being written on the model of twenty- 
five hundred years ago. There is no in- 
vincible reason why Hamlet should have 
died. A nature like his, given to de- 
pressed self -analysis, is really a great 
preservative of life. It restrains a man 
from entrance to a quarrel, from embark- 
ing on dangerous voyages, from specu- 
lating in Wall Street, from patting 
strange dogs on the head, from experi- 
menting with cheap Italian restaurants. 
Hamlet's mode of life should have 
brought him a ripe old age, and we are 
inclined to believe that if the Elizabethan 
audience had not been so fond of a stage- 
ful of dead bodies at the final curtain the 
author might have easily managed to 
keep his Prince of Denmark alive and 
marry him to a sister of Horatio. On the 
other hand, it is your gay young blade 
who, in real life, dies early. Compare 
Hamlet's manner of life — he did not 
drink, of course he did not smoke, he 
took a good deal of open-air exercise by 
night on the battlements of the castle — 
with Bassanio's roystering, serenading, 
money-borrowing and heiress-hunting 
career. It is apparent that the Danish 
prince, in our own day, would have been 
considered a far better insurance risk 
than the predecessor of our Counts of 
Castellane and Earls of Yarmouth. Yet 
Bassanio ends happily, so far as we 
know, whereas poor Hamlet goes down 
to destruction. Why? Merely because 
their creator would have it thus. Re- 
becca West need not have told her secret 
to old Rosmer. The two, with that ca- 
pacity for bearing the burden of sin and 
disaster which the sensitive nature em- 
inently exhibits, might have lived out 
their lives in peace if Henrik Ibsen had 
not interfered. 

Certain writers for the stage have been 
wise enough to see that this matter of a 
happy or an unhappy ending is quite a 
non-essential one in a play. The point is 
a simple one. Our author has usually a 
conflict or struggle to depict, and it is his 
task to express himself as best he can 
under the limitations imposed upon him 
from the outside. Such limitations are 


plentiful in every art. They range from 
the elementary physical conditions that 
differentiate, for instance, the painter 
from the novelist to less universal con- 
ditions of time, race, prevalent public 
taste and even temporary public preju- 
dice. The Greek and Spanish dramatists 
worked within certain notoriously limited 
conventions, yet managed to leave their 
message to the world. If the dramatist, 
therefore, recognises that the very fact 
of his making use of a wooden platform 
instead of a sheet of white paper imposes 
various restrictions on what he has to 
say, why may he not recognise his pub- 
lic's preference for a happy or an un- 
happy ending to their plays as an equally 
weighty condition of his art? The es- 
sence of a play is in the struggle it de- 
picts and in its moral deductions and not 
in the mere physical result. As we have 
said, he would be a poor artist who could 
not fool the public by giving them the 
ending they like and yet manage to make 
his point. For the English-speaking 
races a type of tragedy that ends happily 
— on the surface only, of course ; for 
the Continentals, a type of comedy that 
ends in superficial tears and death — the 
thing does not seem at all impossible. 

Mr. Arthur W. Pinero has been even 
wiser, in the sense of being more eco- 

nomical. Knowing that the public will 
tolerate in the seclusion of the library 
what they will not endure on the stage, 
he supplied his play of The Prodigal 
with a double ending — a happy one for 
stage use, an unhappy one for publi- 
cation in book form. And why not?!' 
The question before Mr. Pinero was, 1 
Can a reformed rake marry an innocent 
young girl and be happy? The answer 
is. He may and he may not. Will that 
girl, when she discovers his past, be mer- 
ciful with him? She may and she may 
not. The dramatist's interest being not 
in the ending but in the problem itself, 
he offers you a choice of two endings — a 
happy one for $2 the orchestra seat, an 
unhappy one for $1.08 net in your own 
reading chair. Mr. Egerton Castle, who 
sanctions a happy ending for his dram- 
atised novel in New York and insists 
upon an unhappy ending in Berlin, is 
quite right. If the Master Builder should 
ever be given at Constantinople, Cairo or 
Teheran, where the law of Allah and his 
Prophet runs, it would not invalidate 
Ibsen's thesis if Master Builder Solness, 
at the end of the play, instead of going 
to his death, should marry Hilda Wangel 
with the full consent of Mrs. Solness. 

S. Strmtskx, 


1 1 REE generations of 
American writers had 
looked upon Mr. Ed- 
mund Clarence Stedman 
as one who in some de- 
gree gave law to them. 

Three generations of 

American readers had come to know him 
intimately as poet and as critic. He did 
not seem like one who would ever pass 
away. It was impossible to think of him 
as being old. His seventy-five years were 
never thought of except when some hand- 
book told yon that he was born in 1833. 
And he changed, if at all, quite imper- 
ceptibly from year to year. When the 

present writer last saw him. very recently, 
his step was as springy, his eye as clear, 
his speech as fluent and incisive as they 
had ever been. 

Indeed, alertness was the most con- 
spicuous trait in Mr. Stedman — alertness 
of body and alertness of mind. When he 
spoke, when he uttered an opinion, there 
was something of the rapier flash about 
it. Indeed, there was something also of 
the rapier's point, for Mr. Stedman could 
say sharp things ; and though he was one 
of the kindest and most truly sympathetic 
of men when you got down to his inner 
heart, he was, nevertheless, rather fond 
of darting a winged word or two in the 



direction of anything or anybody that did 
not meet his full approval. His nature 
was highly sensitised. He felt acutely. 
This made him vulnerable to criticism, 
with regard to which he always showed a 
certain thinness of skin. None the less, 
he took to heart small things more read- 
ily than great ones. In the presence of 
trouble and of misfortunes such as would 
have seared the souls of many, he showed 
himself possessed of a manly courage 
which looked disaster in the eye and 
never quailed. 

It was his alertness and his sensitive- 
ness combined which made him so ad- 
mirable as a critic. He had a feeling for 
good technique. He could search out the 
subtleties of an author's style, and in- 
terpret whatever he discovered there. 
Hence his prose work on the Victorian 
poets, and his matured study, The Nature 
and Elements of Poetry, show intimate 
knowledge, sane appreciation, and an ac- 
curate sense of values. So, too, his an-^ 
thologies are not haphazard collections 
of popular verse, but they represent seri- 
ous thought and fine discrimination. As 
an editor, his collection of the works of 
Poe, which he made in collaboration with 
Professor Woodberry, is careful, accu- 
rate, and complete. 

Mr. Stedman had a most varied career. 
From 1852 until 1863 ne was actively 
engaged in journalism. During part of 
that time he also studied law, and he 
served as private secretary to Attorney- 
General Bates in the Lincoln administra- 
tion. After 1864, his attention was 
turned to railway building, and especially 
to finance ; so that, as everybody knows, 
he became a banker and broker, and was 
a member of the New York Stock Ex- 
change until 1900. Thus, he was always 
in touch with the rush and life of prac- 
tical affairs, while making his love of 
letters a source of spiritual refreshment 
and intellectual recreation. There was 
nothing incongruous in this. The only 
misfortune which came from it is found 
in the fact that foolish persons gave him 
the absurd appellation of "the banker 

Mr. Stedman's poetry is hardly equal 
to his prose. It is easy and graceful. 
Some of it — that of his earlier years — 
has the rollicking note of a mild Bohemi- 

anism. Most of it is merely good "occa- 
sional verse." He himself would have 
criticised in another some of the infelici- 
ties which trouble one in many of his 
lines. Thus, for example, in "The Ballad 
of Lager Bier" one finds the following: 

Karl Schaeffer is a stalwart brewer, 
Who has above his vaults a hall, 

Where — fresh-tapped, foaming, cool 
pure — 
He serves the nectar out to all. 


To make the word "pure" a necessary 
dissyllable is certainly a grievous thing. 
Again, in his more serious verse, he is 
careless, or, at any rate, inexact. Thus, 
in one of his translations from the 
Odyssey we find the following alleged 
hexameter line: 

Came the sorrowing ghost of Agamemnon 

No one with a real feeling for the 
Greek would have made the initial syl- 
lable of "Agamemnon" long. And the 
following line is even worse: 

Priam's daughter, whom treacherous Kly- 

taimnestra anear me 
Slew; and upon the ground I fell in my 
death throes, vainly- 
Writing Clytemnestra with a "K" and 
an "ai" hardly compensates for the quan- 
titative error in the name, nor for the 
general clumsiness of the line in which 
it occurs. As with some of Longfellow's 
most atrocious hexameters, the reader 
has to go back two or three times and 
begin all over again before he can 
force his way through without stum- 
bling, so to speak, over the metrical 

There is one of Mr. Stedman's poems 
which is bound to live, both for its own 
sake and because it is interwoven with 
the history of a critical period of our 
country's life. In 1862, Mr. Stedman 
was acting as war correspondent for the 
New York World, a journal which was 
then violently opposed to the national 
administration. But Mr. Stedman him- 
self was heart and soul with the prose- 
cution of the war. In September of that 
year everything seemed about as black 
for the Union cause as it could possibly 



be. McCIellan had won no decisive vic- 
tory in the field. The Confederate Gen- 
eral Bragg was overrunning Tennessee 
and Kentucky. The Union troops under 
Bueli were making great sacrifices and 
achieving no results. The braggart. Pope. 

had been annihilated at the second battle 
of Bull Run. Lees army was already 
in Maryland. There seemed to be 
no head, no leader, for the national cause. 
Even Union men were disgusted by arbi- 
trary arrests, and were voting against the 



administration. From Washington came 
a swarm of stories, all telling of divided 
counsels, of futile moves, and of sicken- 
ing corruption. 

It was then that Mr. Stedman voiced 
the sentiment of the North in a poem 
which was struck out at a white heat. It 
overtops all the rest of his more polished 
verse. It came quivering with indigna- 
tion from his pen. It was read by mil- 
lions, and it is one of the few great poems 
which the Civil War produced. Mr. 
Stedman wrote it on September 8th ; and 
a day or two later, President Lincoln 
read it to his Cabinet in a voice that was 
shaken with emotion. It was the cry of 
a whole people, and I give it here because 
its six stanzas represent the high-water 
mark of Stedman's achievement. It is 
really part of the history of that tre- 
mendous struggle for national existence 
— blunt and bold and going straight to 
its mark like a cannon-ball : 

Back from the trebly crimsoned field 

Terrible words are thunder-tossed; 
Full of the wrath that will not yield, 

Full of revenge for battles lost! 

Hark to their echo, as it crossed 
The Capital, making faces wan; 

"End this murderous holocaust; 
Abraham Lincoln, give us a man! 

"Give us a man of God's own mould, 

Born to marshal his fellow-men; 
One whose fame is not bought and sold 

At the stroke of a politician's pen; 

Give us the man of thousands ten, 
Fit to do as well as to plan; 

Give us a rallying-cry, and then, 
Abraham Lincoln, give us a man! 

"No leader to shirk the boasting foe, 

And to march and countermarch our 

Till they fall like ghosts in the marshes low. 
And swamp-grass covers each namelesi 

Nor another whose festal banners 
Aye, in Disaster's shameful van; 
Nor another, to bluster, and lie, and 

Abraham Lincoln, give us a man! 

"Hearts are mourning in the North, 

While the sister rivers seek the main, 
Red with our life-blood flowing forth,— 

Who shall gather it up again? 

Though we march to the battle-plain 
Firmly as when the strife began, 

Shall all our offering be in vain?— 
Abraham Lincoln, give us a man! 

"Is there never one in all the land, 

One on whose might the Cause may lean? 
Are all the common ones so grand, 

And all the titled ones so mean? 

What if your failure may have been 
In trying to make good bread from bran, 

From worthless metal a weapon keen? — 
Abraham Lincoln, find us a man. 

"O, we will follow him to the death, 

Where the foeman's fiercest columns are! 
O, we will use our latest breath. 

Cheering for every sacred star! 

His to marshal us high and far; 
Ours to battle, as patriots can 

When a Hero leads the Holy War!— 
Abraham Lincoln, give us a mam!" 

Harry Thurston Peck. 

Hi"* j * "HI 


^fc^jZ ^. \ « v 



1 N the highly coloured 
J sense, romance is dead, 
land it is only in the 
I Ruritanias of Anthony 
■ Hope and his imitators 
| that a modern gentleman 

of spirit now finds the 

opportunity of swimming moats and in- 
dulging in sword play in the moonlight. 
Yet to do the age and its opportunities 
full justice, we think that the average 
scribe of the eighteenth century, living 
from year to year in his own particular 
corner of London or Paris, and dreaming 
of remote cities and forgotten names, 
would contemplate with envy, if he could 
come back for a day, the varied and mi- 

gratory existences of most of the write s 
of the present. Take, for example, Rud- 
yard Kipling, or Marion Crawford, or 
Richard Harding Davis, or Conan Doyle, 
or Egerton Castle, or Jack London, or 
Stewart Edward White, or "O. Henry," 
to mention only a few. These men have 
not been content merely to write of ad- 
venture; they have in a measure lived it. 
In the times of Pope and Addison they 
would have been regarded secondarily as 
writers and first as intrepid explorers. 
Mr. Kipling has done almost as much 
travelling by land and sea as the Wander- 
ing Jew of his fanciful tale; Mr. Craw- 
ford is as thorough a cosmopolitan as any 
soldier of fortune in the army of Fred- 



erick the Great ; Mr. Davis is hardly in a 
class with some of his own extraordinary 
heroes, but at that there are very few 
pans of the inhabitable world which have 
not come under his personal observation ; 
"O. Henry" has, among other exploits, 
lived the life of the modern buccaneer of 
the Spanish Main ; Jack London and 
Stewart Edward White cannot be re- 
garded as leading strictly conventional 
existences; and Mr. Egerton Castle has 
had a career quite as varied as that of 
Captain Basil Jennico of White's Club, 
London, and the Castle of Tollendhal. 

In former days the backgrounds of a 
good many of the romances of adventure 
were budded laboriously out of volumes 
of travel: in the books of the Egerton 
Castles the knowledge of scenery and 
atmosphere has all been derived at first 
hand. All his life has been exceedingly 
picturesque, and his early years were 
particularly so. His grandfather, Eger- 
ton Smith, was a well-known philanthro- 

pist and man of letters, and toward the 
end of the eighteenth century established 
the Liverpool Mercury, a journal which 
still exists and of which the novelist is 
the chief proprietor. His father, Arthur 
Michael Castle, was a man of roving 
tastes, preferring Paris, Vienna and 
Milan to his native England. He was an 
intimate friend of Verdt, Donizetti, Gou- 
nod. Rossini, Liszt, De Musset. George 
Sand. Dumas and Browning. In the 
society of these men he lived, and by 
them he was regarded as an extraor- 
dinary raconteur. He made a constant 
companion of young Egerton. and the 
two went off on long walking tours 
through German and Austrian forests, 
about provincial France, and along the 
shores of the Mediterranean. The boy's 
varied experiences in the line of con- 
ventional education began at the Lycee 
Condorcet, in Paris. There he remained 
until 1873, when he was fifteen years of 
age. For a time be studied at the Uni- 



■ 1,1 ^ Lii 



»^.i«Wi^ J «i 





■' 1 

The study at Sloa 

versity of Paris, and from there went to 
the University of Glasgow, then to 
King's College, London, and .finally to 
Trinity College, Cambridge, where he 
won high honours. In common with a 
number of thousand Englishmen besides 
Mr. Arthur Pendennis, he entered the 
Inner Temple and for a while read law. 
About this time he was seized with a 
desire for a soldier's iife, and throwing 
up his plans for a career at the bar, he 
entered the Royal Military College at 

After leaving Sandhurst. Egerton 
Castle obtained a commission in a West 
India regiment and actively served the 
colours for three years. Later he became 
captain of the Royal Engineer Militia and 
supplemented his education by courses in 
submarine mining at Chatham and Gos- 
port. It was about this time that he 
married — his wife being Agnes Sweet- 
man, of Lamberton Park, Queens 

County, Ireland — and decided to embark 
upon a literary career. From 1885 until 
1894 he was on the staff of the Saturday 
Review, where his extraordinary equip- 
ment enabled him to write on a great 
variety of subjects. His first venture in 
fiction was a short story entitled "A Para- 
graph in the Globe." This was written 
in Rome when he and his wife were on 
their honeymoon. His first novel was 
Consequences, which appeared in 1891. 
In 1895 he produced Le Roman du 
Prince Othon, a rendering into French 
of Robert Louis Stevenson's Prince Otto. 
This book proved very successful in 
Faris. The proofs of the work were sent 
to Samoa, but arrived a few days after 
Stevenson's death. Apart from his fic- 
tion, Egerton Castle is best known as an 
authority on fencing and as an exponent 
of that art. He has been a member of 
several English teams that have met 
French and Belgian teams in interna- 



tional competition. His Schools and 
Masters of Fence has been translated 
into French, German, Italian and Dutch. 
He is the only foreigner ever elected to 
the French Academie d'Armes, an insti- 
tution which dates back to the sixteenth 
century. He is also an honorary mem- 
ber of every fencing club in Europe. 

There is an amusing and ludicrous 
story connected with the American publi- 
cation of The Secret Orchard, which in 
its dramatised version has been very suc- 
cessful during the past few months in 
various cities of the United States. The 
complete American rights to the book 
were sold to a certain publisher, who in 
turn sold the serial rights to a well-known 
woman's magazine. At the last moment 
the proprietors of the magazine repudi- 
ated the agreement on the contention that 
the story was of a low moral tone and 
not what they had reason to expect from 

Egerton Castle. The publisher brought 
suit, and in time the case came up for 
trial. To the mind of the layman it ap- 
peared that the only kind of a jury thor- 
oughly fitted to bring in a just verdict in 
view of the complicated nature of the 
questions involved would be a jury com- 
posed of specialists, of men possessed of 
a profound knowledge of the ethics of 
publishing, of literature in general, and 
of the previous works of Mr. Egerton 
Castle in particular. This, however, was 
far from being the opinion of the law- 
yers. Every talesman who could be 
made to confess that he had ever been 
guilty of reading a work of fiction, or 
possessed a wife addicted to the vice of 
magazine reading, was immediately chal- 
lenged with violence by both sides. One 
venerable rustic, in answer to the awful 
interrogation, "Do you read fiction ?" re- 
sponded without the semblance of a 



smile, "Waal, sir, I read the noospapers." 
But the farce reached its height after this 
edifying jury had been finally selected. 
It was an affair of five minutes. The 
lawyer for the defence opened with the 
startling argument that while his clients 
had contracted for a novel by Egerton 
Castle, the other side had brought no evi- 
dence to show that The Secret Orchard 
was the work of Egerton Castle. The 
publisher was placed on the stand and a 
copy of The Secret Orchard produced. 

"You say this book is by Egerton 
Castle?" "Yes." "Did you see Egerton 
Castle write this book?" "No." "Have 
you any one here who saw Egerton Castle 
write this book?" "No." "Then, your 
Honour" — turning to the judge — "I 
move for the dismissal of the case on 
the ground that it has not been proven 
that Egerton Castle is the author of this 
book." "Case dismissed," nodded the 

R. A. IVhay. 


ITH the death of Holger 
Drachmann Danish-Nor- 
wegian literature loses 
its most noticeable and 
its chief lyric poet and 
picturesque personality. 

Some poets there are 

who seem of themselves but the vehicle 
of expression for the gift with which 
they have been endowed. Their per- 
sonality does not matter much. But 
Drachmann 's poetry, of rare beauty as 
some of it was, seemed but the expres- 
sion of a personality which must have 
expressed itself notably somehow. Com- 
ing years will weed out much that is of 
lesser value in his work, particularly in 
his prose writings, and the beauty of his 
best verse will win itself an enduring 
place in literature. But for some time 
yet the memory of the man's remarkable 
personality will hang about his work and 
colour the appreciation of it for all those 
who knew him. Seldom has there been 
a lyric poet of a personality so alive, so 
attention-compelling as was Holger 
Drachmann. His appearance alone in- 
stantly claimed and held the interest. Of 
great height, massive but not clumsy, 
magnificent in breadth of shoulder and 
erectness of carriage, his once yellow 
hair, prematurely white, framing in 
frosted silver a strong-featured face of 
youthful colouring, glowing with life — 
this was Holger Drachmann as he will 

be best remembered. And more than all 
his splendour of physical endowment, it 
was the remarkable aliveness of the man 
that impressed itself upon you. He was 
alive, vital, virile in every fibre of his 
great frame, in every cell of his gifted 
brain. He lived with double and triple 
intensity every moment of his life, and 
because of this he is dead at the age of 
sixty-one years, when he, of all men, 
seemed fitted to live out the allotted 
threescore and more. 

Drachmann was an extraordinarily 
prolific writer, he was a marine painter of 
merit, a great student and traveller and 
a man who had passed through more of 
emotional experience than falls to the 
share of most mortals. Like Napoleon, 
he regretted that he could not burn the 
candle in the middle as well as at both 
ends. Such a strain was too much even 
for his giant frame, and worn-out nerves 
made miserable the last three or four 
years of his life. 

Holger Drachmann 's personality first 
found artistic expression in painting, and 
it was not until his twenty-fifth year that 
his first tiny volume of verse was pub- 
lished. It is characteristic of the man 
that this first volume was born, not of 
the lyric impulse striving for life, but 
merely as a means of expression for the 
revolutionary ideas which filled the brain 
of the youthful author at the moment. 
Denmark did not take the po'itical mes- 


sage very seriously, and much of the 
verse was extremely youthful and not 
particularly good, but of the rest some 
poems showed discerning critics a lyric 
talent worth watching. 

Most of Drachmann's writing, verse 
and prose, has been done from the im- 
pelling necessity of imparting a message 
of some sort to mankind, from the im- 
pulse to express that particular idea that 
swayed his ardent brain at the moment. 
And it has always been his fate to have 
the message neglected and the work 
praised for quite other reasons. And his 
best work, both in prose and verse, is that 
which portrays the simple elemental emo- 
tions or the nature-painting, in which he 
is past master. The sea has always been 
the chief Muse for his pen and for his 
brush, and he has sung of the lives, the 
joys and sorrows of the coast fishermen 

of those northern waters as no other Scan- 
dinavian writer has yet done. His lyric 
pictures of the beauty of the off-shore 
water in the marvellous White Nights of 
the North still remain the finest poems 
in Danish literature. Of his prose works, 
the stories of fisherfolk and coast sailors, 
in their natural spontaneity, are un- 
doubtedly the best from an artistic 
sense as well as the most deservedly 

Like Peter Pan, Drachmann would not 
grow up. Until the last, almost, he re- 
mained a "big boy" always. He had 
something of the woman and very much 
of the child in him, giant as he was, and 
with his strength was coupled a lyric 
softness which is a national characteristic 
of the Danish spirituality. He was pe- 
culiarly Danish, and yet he had a certain 
seriousness in the realisation of having 


a message to impart, which came to him 
from a German strain in his blood. The 
message could be suppressed, however, 
and then he sang his lyrics and wrote his 
fresh and frank seamen's yarns, and be- 
came a popular idol and the accredited 
poet-laureate of the government. Politi- 
cally he was always in the opposition. 
The attitude of opposing offers a better 
field for the lyric emotions than does an 
acquiescence in What Is. But having rid 
himself of his inclination to oppose in a 
fine poem or a good story, Drachmann 
could put aside the thought of the mo- 
ment and easily pass on to something 
else. As George Brandes said of him 
in his youth: "ft seemed to be a serious 
revolution that was agitating his soul, 
but it was only the fermentation of the 
lyric poetry that was to be." The sum 
of Drachmann *s writing in quantity alone 
is astounding. More than a dozen vol- 
umes of verse, as many of lyric dramas, 
innumerable essays and short stories, and 
a number of complete novels ; this is a 
remarkable feat of sheer industry for a 
man who spent much of his time travel- 
ling — and living — as well as writing. He 
turned out a good many painted canvases 
also. Several of his poetic dramas are 
favourites on the Danish stage, notably 
Once Upon a Time and the historical 
drama Gurre. Of his novels, the story 
entitled Bound (Forskrevet) is consid- 
ered the finest achievement, and has a 
personal interest attaching to it. It is a 
superb painting of Copenhagen life, con- 
taining some descriptions of coast scen- 
ery which are among the finest bits ever 
written by the author. And is it a bit of 
autobiography in that it immortalises the 
one great love in the life of a man who 
loved often and was often loved. This 
one great love of his life came to him 
after he had passed his fortieth year and 

had passed through several matrimonial 
experiences. It did not lead to matri- 
mony, but remained the greatest influ- 
ence in the poet's life. Edith, the heroine 
of the novel, is in actual life Amanda 
Nielsen, the daughter of a small shop- 
keeper, and she became acquainted with 
the poet while she was singing on the 
stage of a shabby cafe in a poor quarter 
of the town. This exquisite picture of 
a great love, as the man to whom it came 
immortalised it in his best novel, has the 
ring of truth about it, which will make it 
endure as a work of art. The love itself 
endured for twelve years, and when it 
ended, as even the greatest love will 
sometimes end, the poet's youth died with 
it. He was over fifty, but he had been 
young until then. 

After this it was that Drachmann came 
to America on his last visit. He spent 
two years in New York, and much time 
elsewhere, studying country and people, 
writing and painting. 

He was a great admirer of things 
American, and found much to commend 
in the work of our poets. Drachmann 
was as thoroughly conversant with Eng- 
lish literature as he was with the work 
of his home writers, and was an en- 
thusiastic admirer of the fresh and virile 
literary personality of Rudyard Kipling. 
Of him he said, laughingly : "I am afraid 
the man is happily married. That is so 
apt to spoil a poet's work in the long 
run." In this connection, and in the 
same mood, George Brandes said of 
Drachmann himself: "Drachmann must 
always have one lost love over whom he 
can mourn and another one who is right 
there to sew on buttons for him, else he 
cannot be happy and write good poetry. 
Rut I suppose the true poets are much 
alike in this." 

Grace Isabel Colbron. 





sisted in his resolution to 
see Jill, and walked to 
Sampford Spiney on the 
following day that he 
might do so. His master 
had gone to see a lawyer 
at Tavistock and the coast was clear. 
Jill's marriage would take place after 
Christmas, and she had little leisure to 
devote to lesser matters; but Codd in- 
terested her. They walked out in a lane 
between the village and the Vixen, while 
he told of what had happened and she 
swiftly explained the things that Eman- 
uel had not fathomed. 

"In a proper fury of rage he was," 
said the man. "So I hear to-day. He 
came in the bar, after I'd left it, and ever 
man thought he was going to fly at 
Northmore's throat. Yet Northmore 
holds off and don't do a stroke against 
him. This business of getting Ruth 
Rendle have made my master soft seem- 
ingly. Why don't he put Pomeroy in 
prison ?" 

Jill laughed. She was that sort of spirit 
who treats the world reciprocally. Her 
coming good fortune had softened her 
heart in various directions. 

"Can't you see what's happened? I 
can. Northmore thinks that Pomeroy 
burned his property, and that puts Pom- 
eroy in his power. So off he goes to 
Ruth Rendle instead of a policeman." 
"Why for should he?" 
"Because she's all the world to him, 
and Ives Pomeroy is all the world to her. 
They were tokened. He told me so him- 
self. 'Twas a choice between trouble for 
Pomeroy and trouble for Ruth. Any man 
in Northmore's fix would have done the 
same. He's got her on the strength of 
that fire. So you hit Pomeroy harder 
even than you hoped. And helped your 
master too." 

"I don't see I've hurt Pomeroy, how- 

"Why — good Lord — you've robbed 
him clean of the girl he was going to 
marry! 'Tis the terriblest thing that 
could have fallen upon him." 

"A girl! What's one girl more than 
another to him? I want to know that 
he's picking oakum and get the broad 
arrow on his back." 

Jill, from her standpoint of coming 
prosperity, looked at Mr. Codd and dis- 
liked him. A revulsion of circumstance 
had brought with it large modifications 
of mind. She was, of course, illogical 
and flagranti v unfair. Emanuel's atti- 
tude, perfectly reasonable a week ago, 
now appeared disgraceful in her eyes. 
She remembered her maiden days and 
love-making with young Ives; she 
dreamed of that springtime gone by, 
when he carried her across the river and 
kissed her half way over. All animosity 
had died under a sensuous comfort of 
spirit begotten by good fortune. She 
often imagined herself in the bar of the 
Jolly Huntsmen alone with Ives — talking 
to him across the counter and giving of 
the best that her husband's bottles held. 

In this spirit Mr. Codd found Jill of 
little consolation. First he was angered 
at her attitude and sneered at the change 
in her views ; then she repaid his offensive 
tones with interest, and he became 

"I hate your poisonous mind," she 
said. "Not done enough! You've done 
a deal too much and — well, 'tis a pity 
you bring it all home so clear to me just 
now, because I'm not on your side no 
more, and I'm sorrv I ever listened to 
your wicked ideas, and for two pins I'd 
put this right." 

"You talk as if you was straight your- 
self!" he burst out. "Better you look 
back a bit before you preach to me. Who 
was it put me up to ?" 

"The devil," said Jill, "and well you 
know it. Don't you dare to say I had 
any hand in this,' because if vou do, I'll 

•Copyright, 1907-1908. by Dodd, Mead and Company 



go straight and make Peter Toop have 
you up to Tavistock for telling lies 
about me. I took mighty good care 
to keep out of it all, and I don't know 
anything whatever about it — not a 

She left him irresolute and alarmed. 
He forgot Pomeroy and began to be seri- 
ously concerned for himself. He was 
ignorant and took her threats very much 
in earnest. He asked himself what he 
might do, but he could not estimate her 

Meanwhile Jill Bolt also reflected long 
and deeply upon the situation. All was 
very clear to her. Again and again she 
broke the thread of thought to wander 
through vanished days with Pomeroy. 
Fate had decided that she should never 
enjoy a man worth having; but, instead, 
a rich husband was to be her lot. Peter 
would probably wear better; but "God 
send he don't wear too long," thought 

She awoke into a very real regret for 
Pomeroy. She herself could not wed 
him; but she found herself very large- 
minded before the spectacle of his dis- 
appointment. Jill was much pleased with 
herself upon feeling these generous emo- 
tions, because she doubted not that they 
argued a good heart and a kindly dispo- 
sition. For Northmore she cared not a 
straw, but she felt that he was marrying 
Ruth under false pretences and that the 
plot to punish Ives had gravely miscar- 
ried. She was exceedingly glad now to 
fe0 that it had done so. She told herself 
that she had come to her senses and that, 
in any event, she would never have al- 
lowed Ives Pomeroy to go to prison. She 
even asked herself why he should lose 
Ruth. A sensation of discovery got hold 
upon her. She was again surprised and 
gratified to find how much virtue inhab- 
iter her heart. She conceived a drama of 
the most dramatic character, in which she 
must appear as the saviour of Pomeroy 
and the real heroine of the situation. She 
pictured Pomeroy thanking her for giv- 
ing Ruth back to him. These dreams 
were very agreeable, but between them 
and the present moment lay hard reali- 

Jill determined to see Matthew North- 
more before that day was done ; and after 

nightfall she walked through Merivale 
and across the Moor to Stone Park. 

A woman let her in, and Northmore 
received her with the air of somewhat 
boisterous heartiness that he now af- 
fected. He was pressing preparations for 
his marriage and had arranged for its 
celebration in a month's time. 

"Well, Mrs. Bolt ; but I must call you 
'Jill' in future, for we shall be relations 
in a sort of way before long!" 

He sat at a table littered with accounts 
and papers. He was preparing to trans- 
fer most of his possessions into the name 
of his future wife. A small oil lamp 
burned on the table, and the fire had sunk 

At the door a man was listening, in the 
classic manner, at the keyhole. North- 
more's new serving woman had told 
Emanuel who was the visitor and thrown 
him into a very violent excitement. What 
did Jill want with his master so quickly 
after their conversation of the morning? 

"Come to the fire," said Matthew. 
"Lucky I hadn't gone down to the Jolly 
Huntsmen, for a yarn and a glass to- 
night. The lawyers have regularly 
muddled my brains, I assure you." 

"Sorry I haven't come about anything 
pleasant," said the visitor — "quite the 
contrary, in fact." 

At a distance the thought of North- 
more's sufferings had not troubled Jill; 
but now. in the moment when she was 
about to inflict them, she felt all that this 
must mean to him. She plunged into the 
matter swiftly. 

"I've done a terrible wrong, and you've 
got to know it." 

"Why, Jill? Why should I? Don't 
bother me with your sins, there's a good 
girl. We're both going to be married. 
Let's try and grasp at a bit of happiness, 
if we can." 

"I know how you feel. I'm like that 
too. I'm frightened at the chance of los- 
ing it all. I wake in a cold sweat of a 
night sometimes from dreaming that 
Peter's changed his mind about me." 

"No fear of that. He's in luck." 

There was a moment of silence; then 
Jill spoke out. 

"You hate Ives Pomerov, don't vou?" 

"No," he said. "I can call God to wit- 
ness now that I don't. I'm very sorry for 



him in more ways than anybody knows, 
or ever will. He's got a terrible deal on 
his conscience, poor chap, and 'tis small 
wonder that he's wild and savage and 
furious. But only one thing matters now, 
and that is that Ruth Rendle is going to 
marry me instead of him. You see, she's 
decided at last." 

"Don't deceive yourself," said Jill. 
"That woman loves Pomeroy a million 
times better than she likes you." 

"What are you saying?" he asked 

" Tis like this, Matthew Northmore. 
Pomeroy made three people hate him: 
you and me and Emanuel Codd. I hated 
him because he wouldn't come back to 
my apern-strings after Samuel died ; and 
Codd hated him over money; and you 
hated him for your own reasons." 

"And he hated me." 

"He said so; but it wasn't real hate — 
not then. Only noise and bluster. He 
ban't built for steady, patient hating, or 
steady, patient loving either. But that's 
not here or there. In my rage I met 
Emanuel Codd, and when he told me that 
he was going to be level with Pomeroy, 
I said nothing against it. 'Twas Emanuel 
Codd burnt your ricks and your stock; 
that's what's on my conscience to tell you. 
He confessed it to me, and my sin was 
that I kept it hid. He planned all — to 
make you think that Pomeroy had done 
it. Pomeroy's done many silly things and 
said many more ; but he had no hand in 
this cruel job. And if you like to call 
your man, I'll face him with this now on 
the spot." 

Northmore as yet quite failed to digest 
the significance of all he heard. He rose 
mechanically and went to the door ; then 
he stopped and turned. 

"Never mind him," he said. "This 
means the end of him. You say that Codd 
planned the fire; but the papers — Pom- 
eroy's papers that I found?" 

"That was where the devil helped," 
said Jill calmly. "Ives came here the day 
of the fire, because he knew that you 
were out of the way, to speak to Codd. 
Then Codd put him in a rage and he 
flung off and galloped away, and never 
thought- to put back some papers and 
things he'd taken out of his pocket. The 
rest is easy to be seen." 

In this most lucid explanation Jill 
made but one error, and that intentional. 
She substituted the Prince of Darkness 
for herself and gave him all the credit of 
her own ingenuity. Then she rose to 

"Of course whether you found Pom- 
eroy's papers or not, I don't know. But, 
so far as I'm concerned, I only tell you 
what Codd told me, and I ask you to for- 
give me for keeping it from you. I know 
'twas wicked and cowardly and mean. 
But 'twas done out of hate of Ives Pom- 
eroy, not from any ill will to you. I 
didn't care a button about you one way 
or t'other then. Now I do care about 
you, and I've forgiven Pomeroy. So 
there it stands." 

She rose, but he apparently had ceasea 
to hear or perceive her. He was staring 
into the fire, and he had shrivelled up a 
little as the thing began to be better un- 
derstood and traced to its sequence. His 
hands were between his knees; his chin 
had dropped; the firelight flickered over 
his pale beard. 

"Good-night," said Jill. "I wish to 
hear you forgive me for bottling this up. 
I shall be your relation soon, and I don't 
want to be anything but friendly." 

She waited at the door for him to an- 
swer, but he had grown oblivious of her 
presence and he did not hear a word of 
the last diplomatic utterance. 

Jill went out and shut the door behind 
her, while Northmore remained motion- 
less beside the fire. His reception of her 
news convinced Jill that she was right, 
and that she had quenched Northmore's 
shadowy hope of happiness forever. 
Then she began to reflect. She looked 
into Stone Park kitchen and asked if 
Emanuel were at home. A man and his 
wife sat there together. 

"He was here a bit ago," answered the 
labourer. "Then he went up the passage- 
way; and then up to his chamber, I be- 

"I should like to see him," said the 

But Emanuel was not found in his 

"Must have gone down to the public- 
house, I suppose," suggested the woman, 
"though 'tis late for him to do so." 

Jill departed, but at the gate she 



stopped and considered the situation from 
the standpoint of Mr. Codd. It was very 
likely that he had been listening, and had 
heard her confession. It occurred to her 
that Codd might be waiting on the fringe 
of the night in a mood not friendly. A 
man who would burn ricks and cattle 
might not hesitate, under provocation, to 
do worse. 

The darkness was intense, and a thin 
rain blew in her face from the south. Jill 
decided not to go home by the road to 
Merivale. It was flanked by thorn-trees 
and boulders and gorse clumps, all well 
calculated to conceal a man. She smiled 
at the idea of Emanuel waiting to brain 
her; then she took a wide circuit to the 
right, and trusted herself to the gloomy 
bosoms of the Staple Tors. 

Left alone, Northmore, through the 
progress of many hours, watched his glit- 
tering palace of hope founder and fall. 

The position admitted of statement so 
simple that even in his present disorder 
of mind he could see it clearly. Ives 
Pomeroy was innocent and Matthew had 
won Ruth with a lie. There could be no 
further shadow of justice in this en- 
gagement and he must instantly release 
her. Even temptation to persist did not 
offer itself, because it would presently 
be common knowledge that Codd had 
committed the crime. ' Jill must tell 
others ; the thing could not be hid. • 

He struggled long and left no loop- 
hole of escape unexplored. Was it pos- 
sible that Jill herself had lied, inspired 
thereto by Ruth? He clutched for a 
moment at the idea of a plot ; but he dis- 
missed it as vain. Jill had never asso- 
ciated his engagement with the business 
of the fire. Her sole concern had been to 
clear his mind of wrongful suspicions. 
He remembered that Ruth did not yet 
know these things; and he wondered 
how he should tell her. Words were no 
vehicle for such tremendous intelligence. 
He would not speak ; he would not write. 
A dreadful deed only befitted such a 
dreadful fact. She should learn explic- 
itly that she was free. There was no- 
thing left for him but the dust, and he 
longed to return to it. Self-destruction 
remained as the only road to peace. For 
hours he dallied with that dusky shadow 
until the idea grew just, reasonable and 

inevitable. Ruth might understand ; and, 
a sad memory, he must forever haunt 
her hereafter. That circumstance he 
could not alter, because, living or dead, 
she would remember him. 

Again the bubbles on the surface of 
this flood arrested him. He thought of 
another, and went so far as to go to the 
door and call Emanuel Codd. It seemed 
to his brain that Jill had been gone for 
half an hour; but to his surprise blue 
dawnlight already filtered at the window. 
The hour was after six o'clock. He as- 
certained anon that Codd had left Stone 
Park on the previous night and had not 

Through the earlier portion of that 
day Matthew Northmore doubted; but 
after noon he was steadfastly affirmed to 
make an end of himself. He chose a spe- 
cial theatre for the act, and proceeded 
thither in forgetfulness that he had al- 
ready promised an appointment for that 
hour and place. 



While Matthew Northmore was hear- 
ing a part of the truth, Ives cried for 
time to fly and bring the meeting at the 
Lone Stones. He fretted and stormed, 
now in his house, now on the farm, and 
his grandmother feared that he must be 
going out of his mind, for he told her 
nothing. She only knew that he had been 
in Plymouth for two days, and had now 
returned in a condition of terrible feroc- 
ity. His attitude reminded her of his 
youth ; but there was no mother now to 
face him and quell him. 

He left the house at nightfall, and 
while he was away, Peter Toop called to 
see him. 

"Lord alone knows where the man is, 
or what's overtook him," said Jane Pom- 
eroy. "He was gallivanting to Plymouth 
for a bit ; then he came home in the worst 
tantrum as I've known since Avisa 

Thereupon Peter told Mrs. Pomeroy 
what she did not know, and related how 
Northmore had won Ruth Rendle. 

"Why, then, 'tis all explained," she 

4 6 


said. "And no worse news could have 
come into this house. He's left it too 
long. If he'd only done what I told him, 
years ago, they'd have been man and wife 
and me a double great-grandmother afore 

Peter rolled his head solemnly. 

"I respect a great-grandmother some- 
thing tremendous. Tis a stately situa- 
tion to find yourself in, ma'am." 

" Tis nought — all along of marrying 
at seventeen. But quite a woman I was 
at that age, and not a fool neither, if I 
remember rightly. As to the unborn, 'tis 
they be a solemn subject ; not us. I mind 
once talking to my darter-in-law — poor 
dear Avisa — and I cried out, 'Lord! 
what a lot of things they'll have to do!' 
meaning them to come. 'Yes/ she said, 
in her sudden, twinkling way, 'and one 
of the hardest will be to forgive us.' 
There's something in that. We don't 
think enough for 'em." 

Ives came in at this juncture, and Pe- 
ter turned to him. 

" 'Tis about the tombstone for your 
dear mother. I'm wishing you could be 
more patient. Think of her patience! 
What would six months more or less 
have been to her?" 

To Jane Pomeroy's surprise, her 
grandson took this admonition quietly. 
He seemed weary and dispirited. 

"That's true enough," he said. "And 
if it wasn't, 'twould be no odds; for no 
man ever hurried you yet, though per- 
haps a woman will afore long." 

He seemed in an amiable mood; but 
physical and mental dejection accounted 
for it. His supper was waiting for him 
and he began to eat. 

"Trust me," continued Peter. "There's 
so much that a man in my calling have 
got to do in a hurry, that, where time al- 
lows, we are apt to take it. Of course, 
very few do all for the dead that I do. 
'Tis generally divided up among different 
trades. However, I do all, and I feel it 
very comforting when a ortige has a 
dash to it and a funeral goes off with a 
bit of a sparkle." 

"You talk of 'em as if they were fire- 
works/' said Ives; and the undertaker 

"Lord, how like your mother you spoke 
that I" he exclaimed. "Well, the stone 

will be at the shed for you to see next 
week; and, as to the slate, I can't take 
it in part payment. 'Tis useless for any 
purpose. But I've added my mite to the 
marble, in the shape of fifteen per cent, 
off, for respect of them under it, and 
more I can't do — especially as a man 
w r ith marriage at the door. Good-night, 

Peter hurried away to avoid argument 
over the superseded slate; but Ives was 
not interested. 

'To think that woman, of all women, 
goes to an old man !" he said. His empty 
and lifeless voice struck Mrs. Pomeroy's 

*'You'm tired, Ives. Be off to bed so 
soon as you've eat your meat. You'll be 
better in the morning." 

"I shall never be better no more. Oh, 
grandmother, d'you know what's hap- 
pened to me ? Ruth — Ruth Rendle's go- 
ing to take Matthew Northmore. At least 
she thinks so; but I know better. If 
'tisn't me, it shall be any but him. I'll 
drop him to-morrow, like I'd drop a bul- 
lock with a pole-axe. I'll do it, if he don't 
give her up once for all." 

"Don't you tell such vain, terrible stuff, 
there's a good boy. You must think how 
it stands, and you'll do far better to see 
Ruth than him. If she's for him — well, 
you can't interfere. Tis her good you'm 
seeking above your own — that is if you 
love her honest." 

"Her good — yes; and it doesn't lie 
with Northmore, or she'd have found it 
out years agone instead of just now. 
What have I done to choke her off 

"Go to her; go to her again," advised 
the old woman. "In a way you've a right 
to know a bit more." 

"Yes, I mean to know more; but 'tis 
the man shall tell me. Tis for him to 
explain. And yet — what can he say 
more ? She's going to marry him ; that's 
all that matters — to him." 

He talked for some time in this 
fashion, and his grandmother spoke pa- 
tiently with him. After a while he 
calmed down a little. 

"Mind you, I never rated her high 
enough — never. I took her too much for 
granted, as a woman who'd do my bid- 
ding always. When I decided that I'd 



offer for her. I reckoned the job was as 
good as done. Twas natural that she 
should feel the other man would wear 
better than me. I allow all that, but I 
can't suffer it. She shan't have him. I've 
sworn so. He shall go out of it, and she 
shall find somebody as'll make her a bet- 
ter husband than him or me." 

"Think — think, Ives. Think how 
'twould be if your mother was liv- 

"I know how 'twould be well enough. 
All different — all; because she would 
never have let this happen. Too fond of 
Ruth for that." 

"But Ruth's old enough to judge for 
herself. There couldn't have gone no 
compulsion to it." 

"How can I tell? I didn't hear his 
lies : 'tis the fashion of all mv enemies to 
fight with lies behind my back. I'd — 
There; but I'm calm and sensible 
enough. I can read men easy, and 
easiest of all that man. Look back at 
him. Twas him that got me put in 
prison — his work. And he've never 
changed, never. From the moment he 
failed in love with Ruth, his suspicious 
hatred woke against me, and he lost no 
chance to do me an injury." 

"He did nought, however." 

"For why? Because I never gave him 
the opening. But he's done something 
now — so deep and dark that Ruth — 
Live! Not this time to-morrow, 
unless he takes his oath afore Christ 
Almighty that he'll never see her 

The hour grew late, and Mrs. Pome- 
roy began to get very sleepy. 

"Read just a few verses, like a dear, 
afore I go," she said. "I've got to count 
on it, Ives, and I miss 'em a good bit 
when you'm not here." 

Thus she spoke, because Ives, when 
at home, was accustomed nightly to read 
a chapter from the Bible for Jane's 

He now picked up the book from its 
place, turned to a marker in the Revela- 
tion of John, and began to read drearily. 
But after a dozen verses his own condi- 
tion burst upon him, and swept away all 

"God damn it!" he cried out passion- 
atelv. "How can I read this drivel and 

my life wrecked and ended? Don't you 
know there's murder in me? Ban't I 
going to kill a man if he don't yield? 
Hell take the book!" 

He flung the volume on the floor 
with both hands, and the cover burst 

"Ives ! Ives ! You've tored the forels 
off your mother's Bible !" 

He had sat down again and put his 
arms on the table and his head upon 

"Go," he said. "Get to bed, grand- 
mother. Leave me to finish this business 
my own way." 

She began to creep over to the sacred 
book ; but he bade her leave it alone. 

"I tell you to go! I can't bide even 
the sight of vou anv more to-night. 
Here " 

He rose and took a hot brick from 
the grate. She handed him an old wool- 
len shawl, and he saw tears run down 
her face 

"Don't take on," he said. " Tis no 
fault and no business of yours. You 
women who bring children into the 
world, 'tis no good crying in your age to 
find that children and sorrow are names 
for the same thing." 

He wrapped the shawl about the hot 
brick and then went up to her room in 
front of her. It was a customary event, 
and the brick kept his grandmother 
warm by night. 

"Kiss me, Ives — and — and — oh, boy — 
pray to God with all your fiery heart 
afore you go to sleep — to please your 
dead mother, do it." 

"Sleep — sleep! I shan't never sleep 
no more." he said. "I've done with 
sleep. There ban't no sleep for men who 
can tear Bibles and curse God." 

He kissed her face and left her and 
licked an old woman's tear off his lips as 
he went down the stairs. Age and 
weariness soon buried the ancient in 
oblivion; the man returned to his 
thoughts and his future. It was past 
midnight and he calculated that six- 
teen hours must still separate him 
from his enemy. He considered how 
to pass them. He revolved the mat- 
ter of taking Northmore's life, and 
for a long time was set remorselessly 
upon it. 





There was none that Pomeroy could 
ask for help, and in his isolation, with a 
very poignant intensity, he realised how 
much Ruth had been to him — how much 
more than he had understood or appre- 
ciated, even in his highest ardour of 
love. Only now, in the moment of loss, 
her precious attributes impressed them- 
selves with burning, aching acuteness 
upon his brain. To her he had not sel- 
dom turned of late when faced with 
minor perplexities; for he was of the 
sort who find advice from women better 
to the taste than counsel of men ; and he 
did not disdain to consult them, where 
pride hindered any reference to his own 
sex. But in this vital matter, involving 
herself, Ruth could not be approached, 
and there remained only Northmore, 
since no other was familiar with the 

So Pomeroy argued from his insuffi- 
cient knowledge. 

He returned to the kitchen, sat down 
by the fire and reflected for above an 
hour. He tried to state the case in 
terms, but they tumbled to pieces and 
only one clear fact dominated his senses. 
He wanted Ruth above all living things. 
That he might have her was his mother's 
hope and prayer. Avisa had worked for 
it ; she had died desiring it. For a long 
time he occupied himself with the situa- 
tion and believed that justice and right 
demanded the marriage between Ruth 
and himself. Then he endeavoured to 
appreciate the position from another 
standpoint. It was not until some hours 
afterward that he began to look out of 
Northmore's eyes. For the present he 
merely regarded Northmore's conduct 
through his own, and concluded that 
Matthew had used man's force in some 
evil way and driven Ruth to accept him 
despite her own aversion. Nothing 
could justify a step so infamous ; no pun- 
ishment could be too heavy for it. Seri- 
ously he resolved with himself to destroy 
Northmore: and that such a step must 
also mean his own destruction did not 
deter him. 
And then he thought of Ruth and 

asked himself whether it was strange 
that she should put Northmore's endur- 
ing and steadfast trust and worship be- 
fore his sudden flame. He looked back 
to his mother's illness and Ruth's so- 
journ at the Vixen. 

"She knows me too well," he said. 
He told himself that right was happen- 
ing; and then, instantly upon this admis- 
sion, the large, generous spirit died in 
him as a light died upon the sea. What 
were the other man's fortitude and 
faithfulness after all? What was 
Northmore? He was one who hunted 
Ruth as remorselessly as he hunted 
hares. A thousand times she had shown 
him that the thing he desired was hate- 
ful to her; a thousand times she had 
turned and struggled and made vantage 
of ground to escape from him. But he 
had run her down at the end. She was 
not dedicated to him ; she was not sacred 
to him. No dying woman. with her last 
conscious glance had woven them to- 

At three o'clock he remembered that 
little more than twelve hours kept him 
from the meeting with Northmore. He 
thought of his bed, but put it off a while. 
For some time he walked up and down 
with long strides that fell heavily but 
silently. Then his foot touched some- 
thing and he saw his mother's Bible. 
The cover lay apart. He picked up the 
book and marked beside it a piece of pa- 
per somewhat stained with age. One 
side was blank, but he turned it over and 
found words and letters. Next he 
picked up the cover of the book and went 
to the table. 

The strip of paper was a list of refer- 
ences to many texts of scripture. They 
had been set down bv his mother, and 
evidences of age already marked the 
earlier entries. He noted that the writ- 
ing began somewhat shakily; then the 
figures and letters became strong and 
steady; and at last they shook again and 
grew very faint and feeble. The final 
reference was written with a lead pencil, 
and the characters trembled much. 
That these words and figures thus grew 
weak towards the end moved Ives more 
than the discovery of them. He gazed 
long and the present sank to sleep. 
Then vanished davs awoke and once 



again he lived through his mother's pass- 

He rose at last and was going to put 
the paper with other scraps and written 
memorials left of her, cherished and 
hidden safely. Then, seeing the Bible at 
his elbow, he sat down again and idly 
turned to the text that headed this 

"And teach us what we shall do unto 
the child that shall be bom." 

His mother had set it down before a 
son or daughter came to her, and Pome- 
roy wondered whether the issue had been 
himself or one of his sisters. He sought 
the second text. 

"God hath judged me and hath also 
heard my voice, and hath given me a 

It was the coming of Ives thus chron- 
icled ! His mother had prayed for a boy 
then. And her God had only sent Ives. 
He thought of Avisa's joy in his infancy 
and saw himself clouding it day by day. 
He feared to read further; then he 
turned to the third text. The writing 
was firm and strong again. 

"God be gracious unto thee my son." 

He speculated as to the age of this en- 
try and turned to yet another. This 
showed him that he was a baby still. 

"Can a woman forget her suckling 

He saw himself cuddled at the breast 
that was dust ; he caught the twinkle in 
his mother's eyes as she hugged him. 

He read again, and the following text 
was quite trivial; yet the words had 
brought a smile to Avisa's eyes when she 
set them down; and they dimmed his 

"His mother made him a little coat." 

He remembered how she had spoken 
of that little coat when her mind wan- 
dered on the shores of death. 

Another question followed. 

"What shall I do for my son?" 

He was a boy now and she began to 
look ahead for him. The next verse 
meant more than he could know or guess 

"And he shall turn the heart of the 
fathers to the children and the heart of 
the children to the fathers" 

He remembered his father not at all, 
but Avisa had often told him that the 

elder Ives loved the younger well. What 
followed seemed the picture of a beauti- 
ful home; but still the texts dealt with a 
time before his recollection. 

"And all thy children shall be taught 
of the Lord; and great shall be the peace 
of thy children" 

Ives wondered when first he began to 
break that peace and wake a new ele- 
ment of anxiety in his mother's mind. 
The next verse spoke of sorrow and 
definitely fixed its own date in the little 

"If I be bereaved of my children, I am 

The words told that Avisa's first child 
was dead, and Pomeroy, now greedy of 
this close and unutterably precious reve- 
lation, almost resented the fact that his 
mother's firstborn found any place in it. 
He eagerly sought for himself again; but 
it seemed that a considerable interval of 
time had passed between the last entry 
and the next. 

His father had now died and Avisa 
was alone. 

"Leave thy fatherless children, I will 
preserve them alive; and let thy widows 
trust in me" 

"Ye shall not afflict any widow or 
fatherless child" 

The story unfolded and the next three 
verses pointed very directly to himself. 

"Withhold not correction from the 
child: for if thou beatest him with a 
rod. he shall not die." 

"Chasten thy son while there is hope, 
and let not thy soul spare for his crying/' 

There had always been hope in her 
heart for him. Nothing that he could do 
killed that imperishable emotion. She 
had died full of hope for him. 

"Train up a child in the way he should 
go; and zvhen he is old he will not depart 
from it" 

That prophecy was vain. How far 
had he himself strayed from the way that 
she had trained him to go? Where did 
he stand now? He turned impatiently 
forward and read again. The next text 
succeeded naturally upon the last and 
seemed to show his mother's hand tighten 
on him as she set herself to obey her 

"It is good for a man to bear the yoke 
in his youth." 



Her yoke had ever been easy; yet he 
remembered the discipline too, and its 
apparent futility to build character or be- 
get self-control. His face grew dark and 
sorrowful. Then woke a gracious per- 
sonal element in the dumb narrative that 
made him sad and happy together, and 
struck a solemn note of emotion for him 
that died not from that day forever when 
the words recurred. 

"And the child grczv,and zvaxcd strong 
in spirit and was in the deserts/' 

"See the smell of my son is as the smell 
of a field which the Lord hath blessed. 11 

He dwelt very long over those words 
and turned onward reluctantly. For his 
soul told him there was sorrow hidden in 
the little figures and letters that re- 
mained. Childhood had ended ; youth lay 
ahead. It could not be that any great 
hour of all the hours that were 
passed had been forgotten by the un- 
sleeping watchfulness that set down this 

Ives lingered here upon the golden 
shore of a young mother's dream. And 
then he read on and saw the steadfast 
chronicler quelling her own doubts. His 
mother began not to understand him. It 
was not egotism that appropriated the 
succeeding text to himself. It could re- 
fer to no other. 

"But wisdom is justified of her chil- 

He dropped the paper and stared in 
front of him. "I know how 'twas," he 
said to himself. "How well I know what 
was in mother's thought then! I hadn't 
begun to break her heart yet ; but she's 
got a dim glimpse of such a thing fall- 
ing out some day. And then she went to 
her book by night and found this and 
rested on it." 

The next verse, however, showed that 
the mother had not rested long. Her 
faith cried out from Christ's generality 
to Christ's self. She carried her best of- 
fering and set it before her Lord. 

"Master, I have brought unto thee my 

It seemed necessary for Avisa to cry 
louder, that she might be heard. 

"Master, I beseech thee look upon my 
son/ 9 

Well he knew the things that were 
happening then; and very clearly he 

heard the heart-stricken cry that fol- 
lowed : — 

"Lord, have mercy on my son/' 

"1 laid in Tavistock prison the night 
she set that down," he thought. And 
then, reading the next verse, he pictured 
the days of waiting and the longing that 
each night would bring him back again 
while still he tarried and would not re- 
turn to her. 

"For her bowels yearned upon her 

"The secrets of that woman's heart!" 
he said. 

The following verse told that he was 
home again. 

"As one whom his mother comforteth, 
so zvill 1 comfort you/' 

A considerable space of years fell be- 
tween this entry and the next intimate 
record; but two texts seemed to bridge 
the gulf and indicate leading trains of 
thought in the mother's mind. One was 
a general sentiment echoed of her own 

"For the children ought not to lay up 
for the parents, but the parents for the 

The second sounded a hopeful spirit 
and spoke of a home at peace. 

"I have no greater joy than to know 
that my children walk in truth/' 

A direct admonishment to him came 
next, and spoke of the dawn of his great 
tribulation. This verse his mother had 
actually repeated to him in the past, and 
he recollected the fact clearly. 

"My son, despise not the chastening of 
the Lord; neither be weary of his correc- 

Another verse from Proverbs followed 
and spoke of anxious days and nights for 
Avisa Pomeroy. 

"My son, be wise and make my heart 
glad, that I may answer him that re- 
proacheth me." 

He guessed at the hidden care and 
stress upon her now, and remembered 
that this happened when rest and mental 
peace were vital to her health. She felt 
that the cruel strain he had put upon 
her was more than she could bear in 
those days; and she had cried for 
strength to save him. 

"0 turn unto me, and have mercy 
upon me; give thy strength unto thy 


5 1 

servant, and save the son of thine hand- 

It almost seemed that this, her great 
prayer, had been answered, for he re- 
membered the event and how he had 
flung over Jill Bolt at the last moment. 
His mother at least regarded the course 
which he had taken as victorious. 

"For this my son was dead, and is 
alive again; he was lost, and is found." 

There remained but one more refer- 
ence. The writing was weak and the 
words and figures barely legible. 

"He that ovcrcometh shall inherit all 
things; and I will be his God, and he 
shall be my son." 

She had yielded him up to her God at 
her death — but only then. Here lay re- 
corded her farewell of him and he under- 
stood the thought in her mind. 

The magic of this fair discovery lin- 
gered like a sunset about the spirit of the 
man ; then, into this new encompassment 
of thought intruded his present circum- 
stances and he regarded the morrow. It 
had already dawned, for the morning 
wind and a wan foretoken of light were 
at the casement together. He had taken 
two long hours to read this message, be- 
cause there occurred lengthy intervals 
of thought between the brief morsels of 
it. They had stood merely as stepping- 
stones from point to point ; they had been 
as texts for the sermon of his life. From 
this great survey he came back to the 
present ; but he did not come back alone. 
The mother's heart was against his ; her 
spirit belonged to him as the intrinsic 
controller of his own. Again he turned 
to the Bible for a text that he remem- 
bered dimly. He knew the source of it 
and came upon it anon. Then he read it 
and set down chapter and verse under 
A visa's last written word. 

"Thy mother is like a vine in thy 

What fruit should the scion of this 
stock ripen in the world's garden? Can 
we gather a thorn from a grape? 

"That woman's son have got no 
choice," he said to himself, and in igno- 
rance uttered great truth. 

He began to think upon Avisa's love of 
Ruth, and Ruth's worship of Avisa. But 
the past was past, and Ruth, looking for- 
ward, had weighed her own hopes of 

happiness and calculated wherein they 
might most surely lie. Who should blame 
her? Were peace and content a small 
matter? If, indeed, she had been brought 
to love Matthew, was it wonderful ? Her- 
self the soul of steadfast trust, could such 
a man fail finally to win her? His very 
qualities were her own. 

Pomeroy decided to do. no hurt to 
Northmore. He determined to go to the 
meeting place with empty hands, to wait 
the other's pleasure, and listen quietly to 
all that he might speak. His first pur- 
pose, indeed, inclined him to break the 
appointment and see the other man no 
more; but desire to hear further con- 
cerning the great matter was too strong 
within him; and he made up his mind to 


As for his own future, it was para- 
lysed; because he could not see whither 
life without Ruth Rendle would lead. 

He turned again to the message and 
took it up with him to his room. 



Against the aerial darkness behind 
them the Lone Stones glowed like a circle 
of flame. Their ruddy, stunted columns 
flashed here upon the very edge of the 
hill; and all behind and beneath was 
purple shadow, and all before was the 
waning splendour of the west. Hither 
came Ives Pomeroy to his tryst and 
found himself the first there. The hour 
was about four o'clock, and Ives, upon 
his way, had taken a detour so that he 
might not go nigh Stone Park. He came 
armed only with the memory of the night, 
and he waited patiently in a sort of deso- 
late peace; but he did not review his at- 
titude or intention, for both were as- 

If Ruth loved this man better than she 
loved him, there ceased his right to say 
another word. He would, however, hear 
what Northmore had to tell him ; because 
Matthew had promised a revelation, and 
he was come to learn it. There, if the 
matter proved not vital to Ruth, he 
would leave all and interfere no more. 



The light failed fast, and the west 
sank like a dying torch before the 
other man appeared. Out of the heath 
he rose presently, and Pomeroy, with his 
back against the great stone of the circle 
and his arms folded on his breast, stood 
motionless and watched him approach. 
Suddenly his interest increased as the 
master of Stone Park drew near, for 
there was much that appeared strange 
about him. A terrible change had come 
over Northmore. It seemed that he was 
drunk, and Pomeroy at first supposed 
that it must be so. There rose a sudden 
hate for this wretch in the mind of the 
younger. The foothold of Matthew was 
weak. He staggered and reeled forward. 
Once he stopped and sat on a stone and 
mopped his face. Then he seemed to ob- 
serve the circle suddenly and came on 

In doubt of his next action and im- 
pressed with the folly of any meeting be- 
tween Northmore and himself under 
these conditionf, Ives hesitated; then he 
slipped down to be out of sight, crept 
near the further rim of the ring and 
crouched invisible that he might better 
judge of the other's state. 

Northmore was quickly on the spot 
and he stood there gasping awhile with 
his face lifted. It shone with sweat and 
the sky painted its pallor yellow. The 
farmer was not drunk, but he suffered 
under great excitement. His eyes were 
terrible thus lighted by the sky, and they 
blazed with such a savage misery that 
the watcher supposed he looked upon a 

Now Ives knew not what to do. He 
felt neither pity nor anger ; but he found 
himself most deeply concerned to gather 
the meaning of this great passion. He 
wondered whether Ruth had changed her 
mind. Many reflections, doubts and even 
hopes sped hurtling through his brain; 
but still he watched and waited. In his 
excitement he peered boldly out from 
behind the stone that hid him : but 
Northmore was unconscious of any 
presence and his eyes were turned in- 

Suddenly Matthew sat up, rose to his 
feet and acted swiftly while his heart 
held to its purpose. First he tore open 
his waistcoat and shirt, then he drew 

from his pocket a revolver and cocked 
it. He held it to his side ; then changed 
his mind and lifted it to his head. The 
hesitation saved his life. For a moment 
this most unexpected horror kept Pom- 
eroy motionless ; then he leaped forward 
and shouted loudly as he did so. North- 
more turned and started as he pulled the 
trigger. Thus only fire scorched his 
temple; the bullet missed it and struck 
off a splinter from the stone behind him. 
Opportunity to shoot again was not 
granted, for Ives tore the weapon away 
and flung it far into the fog. They stood 
silent, panting within arm's length of 
each other; and it was Matthew who 
spoke first. 

11 You — you of all men ! What do you 
do here?" 

"Me — yes. Who should it be? Wasn't 
we to meet here?" 

Northmore looked at him as at a 
strange creation unfamiliar in his eyes. 

"I come to meet my death — not you," 
he said. 

"Button up your breast. You forgot 
I was to be here, but thank the Lord I 
didn't. You stare, but you're not more 
puzzled than me. You know a lot I 
don't, seemingly, else you'd never have 
come here to blow your brains out. And 
I know more than you. Since I've saved 
your life, I can tell you that a few hours 
agone I was minded to do for you what 
you meant to do for yourself. You've got 
to thank not me, but God Almighty, that 
you're a living man." 

The other seemed slowly to waken and 
return to his senses. 

"There's no thanks due — no thanks 
due — no thanks due," he kept repeating, 
in a monotonous voice, like an animal 
crying. "If I'd known that you meant 
to kill me, I'd have come sooner. I 
want to go out of it. I must go out of 
it. Can mortal man face this and 

"Face what?" asked Ives. "Don't give 
wav no more. You've come back to life 
by a short cut ; and that's as much as to 
say you haven't done with the world, and 
the world haven't done with you. If 
what ails you is my work, let me have it. 
Things have happened to me too, though 
'tisn't likely in such as me the force of 
'em will last very long. Better you speak 



and say all you want to say afore I 
change again." 

But the other had not yet gathered his 
shaken wits together. He had indeed re- 
turned to life by a short cut. But he 
was dazed, obscured, inconsequent. 

"Here she first said 'No/ and here I 
was going to make an end of it. You — 
you've done no service to me nor yet to 
yourself. What can she do now ? It all 
depends on me — all — every atom of it. 
She's promised — she'd never go from her 
word — not even if I confessed that she 
had promised under false pretences. 
Never — the soul of honesty is that 
woman. She'd never go from her word, 
I tell you." 

"And aren't you honest too?" asked 

The other did not answer, but rambled 

"I was dragged here to die — where she 
refused me first. Yes — she refused me 
once. That may surprise you. And why 
were you here — waiting, and why in- 
stead of letting me go out of your path 
you . . . 

"Come, come," said the saner man. 
"Get at peace with yourself. Quiet down 
your intellects afore you try to tell me 
what 'tis all about." 

Gradually Northmore turned to a more 
coherent frame of mind. Then he es- 
sayed to explain the facts and did not 
spare himself in the process. Pomeroy 
heard all without speaking. He passed 
through many moods as the story with its 
plot unwound on Northmore's faltering 
tongue; but at the end one mighty fact 
swallowed all lesser emotions. Ruth was 
free to do as she would; and she had 
only accepted Northmore out of love for 

"You're an honest man," said Ives at 
last. "I'll say nought about what you 
meant to do, and I've only one quarrel 
against you; that you believed that 
damned scamp's word. But 'tisn't strange 
you found it easy, seeing what promised 
to come of it ; and since you did believe 
it, I suppose 'twasn't in human nature to 
help using it and driving it home on 
Ruth. Belike I'd have done the same." 

"She loves you. She's always loved 
vou; and I knew it and yet — But it's 
told now. I don't want your pity, but I 

want you to forgive me. As for punish- 
ment, you've punished me enough. I 
should be in eternal peace this minute if 
it wasn't for your hand. You've got your 
revenge so long as I live." 

"A time will come when you'll think 
different to that. 'Tis not strange you 
felt a sudden want to be out of it. But — 
well, — God knows I can't preach. Only 
this you shall swear to me afore I leave 
you: that you'll not make away with 
yourself. I'll dog you day and night un- 
til you swear it! I feel terrible curious 
about your life now ; I've got a hold on 
it ; and I call you to promise me that you 
won't lift a hand against yourself no 
more, Matthew Northmore. For the sake 
of that woman, keep alive. I don't ax 
for myself. Her days will be darkened 
forevermore if you kill yourself through 
her fault." 

"I won't kill myself, but I'll go. Ill 
drag on with it somewhere till the end." 

The two men went away slowly to- 
gether and left the circle empty. 



There came a morning in early spring 
when Pomeroy left his home with the 
light to keep an appointment. Some very 
striking new raiment appeared in his 
chamber, but he did not don these things. 
Instead he put on working day attire and 
an old cap. Then he went out of doors, 
sank to Walla, crossed the stream and 
ascended on the other side. 

The sun had not risen and only the 
earliest birds were waking A thrush 
made sleepy music from a silver fir, that 
stood on the edge of the grey light. The 
glens were full of dew and the sky was 
almost clear. 

Hither came Moleskin to meet Ives. 
The old man brought a little bunch of 
primroses culled from some secret spot 
familiar to him. 

"You've kept your word," he said. 
"And so have I. 'Twas a promise to 
Ruth that if she was married any day 
after February I'd get her primrosen for 
her wedding gown. For certain she'll 



have braver blossoms too; but she 
promised for to wear these, and here they 

He handed Ives the flowers. Moleskin 
knew their haunts as he knew the haunts 
of other natural things in his wild world. 

"I hark back to boyhood come prim- 
rose time — always/' he said. "I go back 
to the days when I was a bit of a lad. 
And all's the same — flowers, feathers, 
fins. They don't change to more than the 
bed of the river or the hovers of the 
trout. Tis only us that change. Smell 
'em — just the same sweetness that met 
our great-great-grandfathers' noses. And 
they grow the same and peep out come 
the Spring again, like maidens from be- 
hind their window-blinds." 

''It's good to go back a bit if you'm old, 
I suppose," said Ives. 

"Yes, it's good ; but it's—" Moleskin 
broke off. "And so here's your wedding 
day, Pomeroy, and a fine one too ! Tavi- 
stock at twelve o'clock. Don't fear I 
shall miss it. There's a whole rally of us 
driving over in Peter's wagonette. Him 
and his wife are coming too. Trust her !" 

"Lizzie bides along with Ruth to-night 
down there. But Arthur Brown can't 
get away. Here's his letter. 'Twill 
amuse you since you know the man." 

He handed the communication to 
Moleskin and smelt the primroses while 
his neighbour read. They would be on 
Ruth's breast soon; but he had nothing 
to envy them. 

"A fine copy-book hand to be sure, 
said Moleskin. 

"Yes; and a fine copy-book mind be- 
hind it." 

"Such men be the backbone of the na- 
tion, without a doubt. I see he tells that 
his voungster has been ill ; and the good 
man is evidently a little bit surprised at 
God Almighty, that He could suffer such 
a thing to happen. A wonderful chap — 
light to your shade — eh, Ives — or is he 
shade to "your light?" 

"How's Mrs. Cawker?" asked Ives. 

"Helping with her needle against our 
Mary's wedding. What a woman — eh? 
And' what a frame! There'll be a great 
battle of soul against clay when that 
noble creature's got to go. But never 
mind ; nobody but you and Ruth to-day. 
Tis your day. If your mother only 


wasn't gone! T would have been her 
high-water mark of happiness to see you 
two joined presently." 

"She don't seem as dead as she was," 
answered the other. "I can't make my 
meaning very clear, I'm afraid — yet, if 
any man could grasp hold of it, perhaps 
you're the one. 'Tis that mother's nearer 
and mbre alive to me, even now, than 
many of the real, live people round 

"Well I understand! Some are more 
alive, though they be dead, than others 
all the days of their life. And her — her — 
why, she's not dead so long as you'm stir- 
ring, my bold hero ! Why, you may even 
grow to be worthy of such a mother 

"Never," he said. "No son's worthy 
of such a woman as Avisa Pomeroy." 

"Some of 'em used to wonder how 
'twas you didn't take more after her; but 
'twas onlv their blindness. I knowed she 
was there — waiting to show in you, poor 
chap. And out she came when most you 
had need of her, I reckon. How's Mat- 
thew Northmore bv the same token? 
Have 'e heard aught of him?" 

"He's not coming back — got a farm 
t'other side the Moor, Chaggeyford way. 
He's well — so he says." 

Moleskin nodded. 

"A spark of wisdom in him not to come 
back. And it opens up the interesting 
question of who'll have Stone Park. We 
must hope for a large-hearted creature." 

But Pomeroy was not considering 
Stone Park. 

"Two," he said, harping back to the 
great matters in his mind. "Two of the 
best women God ever made, and one — 
one bore me — and t'other be going to 
marry me. I've had a mighty deal more 
luck than my share, Moleskin." 

"You have without a doubt ; but that's 
a very common thing — whether good 
luck or bad. Nought in nature's rarer 
than to see man or woman getting their 

They had come down to the brink of 
the river, and here parted. 

"See you later," said Moleskin. "Take 
care of they primrosen, and joy go to her 
along with 'em." 

As the man vanished, each upon his 
path, there woke a great light out of the 



cast, and the birds sang together. Dawn 
bloomed rather than broke — budded and 
bloomed where little cloudlets opened 
scarlet petals under the feet of day. Then 
this transparent radiance of heaven find- 

ing earth, glittered over long leagues of 
dew, tinctured the crystal of Walla, and 
kissed Dartmoor — Mother of rivers, 
Guardian of the rain — as she awoke and 
lifted her misty eyes to the morning. 

The End 


The "New Thought"* 

Those who have been helped by what 
is called the "New Thought" will be 
grateful to its foremost representative 
for having furnished a concise statement 
of its principles and of their application 
to common life. In "a gift book of special 
value" entitled This Mystical Life of 
Ours, Mr. Ralph Waldo Trine has col- 
lated the most valuable thoughts from 
his earlier works. There are fifty-two 
chapters, one for every week of the 
year, so that as the days go by the reader 
may have food for meditation and a 
guide to happy living. The so-called 
"Life Books" of the author have had ex- 
traordinary vogue. The first of them, 
What All the World's A-Secking, at- 
tracted favourable notice, and the more 
ambitious treatise. In Tunc with the In- 
finite, has been much admired by people 
who were in quest of happiness but did 
not know exactly how to attain it. 

It would be hard to say why the 
thought of Mr. Trine should be called 
"new." His is a practical philosophy, 
the principal thesis of which is that hap- 
piness here and now is within the reach 
of all. By conformity to the author's 
teaching, one may acquire the beatific 
vision and perfect peace. Yet in almost 
every period of history optimism of this 
kind has had its advocates. Even the 
Stoics with their severe views of human 
life believed that the beata vita was within 
reach of the wise; and others have en- 

♦This Mystical Life of Ours. By Ralph 
Waldo Trine. New York : Thomas Y. Crowell 
and Company. 

tertained the idea that a Utopia might be 
realised in which all the evils which now 
afflict society might be removed. Mr. 
Trine, like that other new thinker, Mr. 
Fletcher, who has been teaching people 
how to eat and has proved that "fore- 
thought minus fear-thought" will make 
men happy, preaches a gospel of health 
and hope. If any wish to take his pre- 
scription, and get what he promises, it 
would be cruel to put any obstacles in 
their way. But it is pardonable to in- 
quire as to the validity of Mr. Trine's 
principles and as to the value of his prac- 
tical teaching. 

At the foundation of the "New 
Thought" is a vague idea which is com- 
mon to many forms of religion. This is 
that God, the Infinite, is a mighty reser- 
voir of spiritual force and that each finite 
life should become a channel of divine 
energy. If this ideal be realised every 
human being will be made happy and a 
source of benefit to others. This is the 
way in which Mr. Trine puts it: 

The great central fact in human life is the 
coming into a conscious vital realisation of our 
oneness with the Infinite Life, and the opening 
of ourselves fully to this divine inflow. 

Each individual life is part of. and hence is 
one with, the Infinite Life ; and the highest in- 
telligence and power belongs to each in just 
the degree that he recognises his oneness and 
lays claim to and uses it 

Upon this rather vague pantheism are 
grafted many of the commonplaces of 
Christian ethics. Mr. Trine draws upon 
the gospels to enforce his doctrine that 
man's true ideal is that of union and 
communion with the Infinite. 



Even admitting that there is a philo- 
sophical justification for this indefinite 
theory, the author's mode of applying it 
to life is wholly unsatisfactory. It 
would be difficult to find a parallel to the 
empty and often erroneous propositions 
which he sets forth with such serious- 
ness. He says, for example : 

We are all living, so to speak, in a vast 
ocean of thought. The very atmosphere about 
us is charged with the thought-forces that are 
being continually sent out. When the thought 
forces leave the brain, they go out upon the 
atmosphere, the subtle conducting ether, much 
the same as sound-waves go out. 

Even though the thoughts as they leave a 
particular person are not consciously directed, 
they go out ; and all may be influenced by them 
in a greater or less degree. 

It will be seen from such words that 
the psychology like the metaphysics of 
the New Thought is crudely materialistic. 
Nor need it be said that the idea of 
thoughts wandering about in space with- 
out a mind to think them is extravagant 
nonsense. Some of Mr. Trine's physi- 
ological opinions moreover are rather 
surprising. He supposes that in sleep 
the soul receives instruction, the result 
of which will be that one may lose the 
liking for meat and alcoholic drinks, 
"things of the class that stimulate the 
body and the passions rather than build 
the body and the brain into a strong, 
clean, well-nourished, enduring and 
fibrous condition." It may be doubted 
whether it would be altogether desirable 
to have one's brain in a "fibrous condi- 
tion" ; but those who have observed the 
mischievous effects of roast beef and 
spring lamb upon the bodies and minds 
of the ignorant will be glad that Mr. 
Trine condemns such foods and puts 
them into the same class with spirituous 

The author's moral aphorisms are of 
two kinds : they are either commonplace 
sayings so obvious as to deserve only the 
comment cela va sans dire, or are so in- 
definite as to be worthless for directing 
human conduct. Of the former kind, the 
following are fair specimens: 

Your every act — every conscious act — is 
preceded by a thought. 

A man may make his millions and his life 
be a failure still. 

I know of no better practice than that of a 
friend who continually holds himself in an 
attitude of mind that he continually sends out 
his love in the form of the thought, — Dear 
everybody, 1 love you. 

Side by side with such truisms may be 
found such gems of thought as these : 

To live undisturbed by passing occur- 
rences, you must first find your own centre. 

If we could but learn from the birds. If 
we could but open ourselves to the same powers 
and allow them to pour forth in us, what sing- 
ers, what movers of men we might have! 

Will is the sun-glass which so concentrates 
and so focuses the sun rays that they quickly 
burn a hole in the paper that is held before it 

Mr. Trine's well-meant treatise closes 
with what he calls "A Sort of Creed," 
which is "to be observed to-day or in 
part ; to be changed to-morrow — or aban- 
doned — if the light is better." But ap- 
parently one must be "in tune with the 
Infinite" in order to live up to this "sort 
of creed." Here are some of the things 
which should be done : 

To remain in nature always sweet and sim- 
ple and humble and therefore strong. 

To love the fields and the wild flowers, the 
stars, the far-open sea, the soft warm earth, 
and to live much with them. 

In brief, to be honest, to be fearless, to be 
just, to be kind. 

If one is at a loss to account for the 
popularity of the "New Thought," "Ed- 
dyism" and other forms of pseudo-phi- 
losophy, it has only to be remembered 
that in almost every man there is to be 
found a liking for some sort of amateur 
metaphysics. Among the uneducated 
and credulous there is a fondness for 
irrational superstitions, a belief in omens, 
clairvoyance and spiritistic manifesta- 
tions. There is a widespread tendency 
now to accept a sort of vague philosophy 
more or less religious which has no 
scientific foundation. Our forefathers 
satisfied this instinctive appetite for the 
abstract and supernatural by listening on 
Sundays to long discourses on dogmatic 
theology. They were fascinated even by 
its terrors. But in this impatient and 
critical age, the old theology has lost 



ground. Almost any kind of sermon will 
do, provided it is not doctrinal. The re- 
sult is that instead of refreshing his mind 
with meditations on the divine attributes, 
predestination and the limited number of 
the elect, the average Philistine likes to 
dabble in ideas that seem high or pro- 
found to his untutored intellect. Almost 
anything that is vague if put into pre- 
tentious language will attract the igno- 
rant; often the sound of the words is 
more impressive than their sense, and we 
have no doubt that Mr. Trine's oracular 
utterances must be extremely agreeable 
to people like the old lady who found 
spiritual consolation in the sound of "that 
blessed word Mesopotamia." 

Archibald Alexander. 


The Confessions of Harry Orchard* 

,4 My earnest prayer is, in closing this 
awful tale, that it will be the means of 
stopping this kind of work forever." 
Thus ends The Confessions and Auto- 
biography of Harry Orchard. By "this 
kind of work" is meant the murders, 
dynamite outrages and lesser persecutions 
which constitute the warfare carried on 
for years by leading spirits of the 
Western Federation of Miners; a war- 
fare in which the opposing force, the 
Mine Owners' Association, as consist- 
ently resorted to the equally lawless, 
though less primitive, tactics of defiance 
of the courts and perversion or con- 
temptuous disregard of the processes of 
the law. In these guerrilla campaigns 
Orchard was an important factor, though 
an inconspicuous one until the murder of 
ex-Governor Steunenberg of Idaho, to 
which he confessed, implicating Moyer, 
Haywood and Pettibone of the Western 

A jury set aside Orchard's confession 
as being insufficient for the conviction of 
the alleged instigators of his crimes. 
Nevertheless, this remarkable human 
document, almost stunning to the mind 
in its simplicity of self -revelation, pro- 
duces an overwhelming impression of 

♦The Confessions of Harry Orchard. New 
York: The McClure Company. 

essential truthfulness. Its frankness is 
of the meticulous, morbid kind charac- 
teristic of the half-frantic convert to 
whom self-abasement is a form of atone- 
ment. In its summing up is the dread 
of the hereafter, the forced hope of the 
mind driven in upon itself and taking 
refuge in religion. 

Orchard, whose real name is Albert E. 
Horsley, began his career as a cheese 
manufacturer, drifted into wild ways, 
which ruined his business, and, going 
West, turned to the trade of murder be- 
cause it was the readiest method of mak- 
ing a living: "a way of making money 
without working so hard," as he puts it. 
He had no particular taste for slaughter. 
In fact, he rather shrank from the actual 
deed, though the planning of it he pur- 
sued with a placid mind. A singularly 
logical creature, Orchard pictures him- 
self. He needed money. He disliked 
hard labour. Killing people was not 
hard labour. There was money in it. 
Therefore he killed. The syllogism is 
complete. In it inheres the chaste sim- 
plicity of natural instinct. It is the 
weasel stalking its prey, the trout raising 
to the May-fly. 

No bitterness was felt by him toward 
those whom he ''bumped off," to use his 
felicitous euphemism. He worked for the 
union leaders with no deeper passion 
than a conviction that labour was often 
maltreated by organised mining capital; 
a conviction hardly more violent than 
most of us entertain regarding equal 
suffrage or revised spelling. True, the 
leaders "talked war" constantly, but 
Orchard's mind was not fired. 

There was no money in this kind 
of propaganda. He went along on his 
first dynamiting trip, the excursion that 
blew up the Bunker Hill-Sullivan mine, 
because it appealed to him as a sort of 
holiday outing, and his description of it 
reads like a South American revolution 
reported by O. Henry. Wholesale 
arrests following suggested a change of 
scene, and Orchard went to Cripple 
Creek, where he practised 'high grad- 
ing," an ingenious, if petty, form of mine 
thievery. Here also he became a big- 
amist. A union man named Davis made 
him a business proposition to blow up 
the Vindicator mine. The following ex- 



tract illuminates the phenomenon of a 
contract murderer's mental processes. 

Now, only looking at one side of the ques- 
tion, and having no money — as the little I 
did have I deposited in the First National 
Bank of Victor, and that institution had 
failed and left me without a cent — the re- 
sentful feeling I had against these "scabs," 
who were taking our places, together with 
the offer of money, influenced me. I told 
Davis I would go down and set off the dyna- 
mite. He said if I would he would give me 
$200. Of course, if we set this carload of 
powder off it would blow out the whole 
mine and kill everybody in it. 

Something went wrong and only two 
men were killed. Meantime Orchard 
had exhibited another phase of his many- 
sided character by turning jealous be- 
cause an easy and well-paid job of train- 
wrecking had gone to another man, and 
informing the authorities. The leaders 
of the Federation, however, won him 
back, and he took a contract to assassi- 
nate Governor Peabodv of Colorado. The 
attempts to kill Peabodv suggest extracts 
from that roaring Stevensonian farce, 
The Dynamiter. They hunted the gov- 
ernor with sawed-off shot-guns, with 
revolvers, with clock-work bombs and 
wire-trigger infernal machines; in pairs, 
in gangs and stalking singly ; and the in- 
tended victim went on the even tenor of 
his way unharmed and unsuspecting. 
"We don't seem to have any luck," pa- 
thetically complained one of the con- 
spirators after a particularly flat failure. 
So Orchard gave this up and made a 
little money by "bumping off" Lyte 
Gregory, an enemy to the unions, with 
a sawed-off shot-gun. 

The destruction of the railroad station 
at Independence was Orchard's work. 
Forsaking dynamite for the time, he tells 
how he went to San Francisco and put 
strychnine in Fred Bradley's morning 
milk. But as a poisoner he lacked 
finesse. The servants noted a bitter taste 
in the milk, and the hero of the auto- 
biography had to waste several days be- 
fore he succeeded in blowing Mr. Brad- 
ley into the hospital with dynamite 
placed at his door. As a contribution 
to the humours of the law it is worth 
noting that the gas company was mulcted 

in $10,000 damages on the theory that 
leakage from their pipes had been ex- 
ploded by Mr. Bradley's matutinal cigar 
as he stepped into the hallway. 

For a time he planned to put strych- 
nine in an erring brother's whiskey and 
to disperse various public persons with 
high explosives. It is not necessary to 
give the record in detail. He contrived 
to earn about $1,000 a year, despite the 
fact that most of his attempts at murder 
proved abortive. He makes it quite clear 
that he followed the law of prey and 
killed only for food, so to speak. 

"I always dreaded to do these mur- 
ders, and usually put them off as long 
as I could, or, rather, as long as I had 

His arrest for the historic murder of 
ex-Governor Steunenberg put a terminus 
to his career, and the confession fol- 
lowed soon after. Probably Orchard is 
quite genuine in his own belief that the 
statement was inspired by a change of 
heart on his part. "I felt it a duty that 
I owed to God and humanity." But a 
careful reading of the chapters on his 
prison-life suggests rather that the mov- 
ing force within the murderer was the 
necessity for action. It might equally as 
well have taken the form of suicide, or 
escape. Escape being impossible, and a 
ready means of self-destruction lacking, 
the restless spirit turned to the one other 
source of relief, repentance. And the re- 
pentance is characteristically complete 
and fervid ; characteristically logical. 
Repentance and confession represented 
to Orchard in gaol the line of least re- 
sistance, just as had murder to Orchard 
at large. 

The sociologist and student of eco- 
nomic conditions will find matter of in- 
terest in Orchard's well-maintained 
thesis that the labour unions as a whole 
did not believe in murder and dynamit- 
ing, but that they were controlled by a 
set of shrewd, unscrupulous and utterly 
selfish politicians, an "inner ring," who 
maintained themselves in power by brow- 
beating the conservatives. If a general 
vote had been taken, he insists, upon any 
project of violence it would have been 
in the negative. 

As a book, however, the unique inter- 
est of the confession lies in the insight 



aitonled inro ihe psychology of the man- 

Vc-« get hil: cr*ry thinking o: a ;^b of 
this k:r.i [>h>:tir.g :rc:r. ambush* when one 
mm is a!or.e. 

\\"hca vou arc on work of this kir.d von 
soon become suspicions of everybody and 

I had ngrsred a good many times how to 
get away with Mr. Bradley [kill him] and 
not get cacght. 

It was strange how little account they 
took of murder in that country. I think, for 
one thing, the people got used to seeing 
men killed in the mines. . . . This seemed 
to make human life cheap. 

This was the nrst of anything like that 
I had been mixed up in [the murder oi two 
mine men] . . . and I rather wished I had 
not done it. at first. 

I told Haywood the hard luck I had had 
[failing to kill Governor Peabody]. 

These are flash-lights upon the soul of 
the man. The book is written in a tone 
of general and at times artful simplicity. 

Samuel Hopkins Adams. 


Ellen Glasgow's "The Ancient 


The present reviewer may as well ad- 
mit that this is the first of Miss Glasgow's 
books which it has actually befallen him 
to read. The fact of her popularity has 
not escaped him; she has seemed evi- 
dently to belong to the order of Mrs. 
Burnett and Mr. Hichens; the kind of 
writer whom for a month at a time now 
and then everybody is asking everybody 
else if he has read, exactly as everybody 
asks whether it is going to rain, what is 
going to happen to Union Pacific, or 
who is going to be the Republican candi- 
date. This sort of stock query is a boon 
to the sewing-circle and the accommoda- 
tion train; as a rule (thank Heaven we 
have now and then a De Morgan to the 
contrary) it does not amount to much 
else. To judge by the present story Miss 
Glasgow is the type of author who is 
taken seriously by a great many persons 
who ought to know better. No observer 

♦The Ancient Law. By Ellen Glasgow. 
New York: Doubleday, Page and Company. 

whose business it is to follow the whole 
main stream of contemporary notion in 
England and America and who is able 
to take it seriously car* !*e*p being a ';ttle 
disappointed, ever. aggTiexTvi, " at the 
blandness with which the ordinarx com- 
patriot of the better c'ass is xxont to ac- 
cept as representative or extraordinary 
xvhat is more pretentious commonplace* 
The Ancient !. s nc is better in workman* 
ship than the average American nox*el % 
but it is a mediocre arTair at best. 

Xo better theme could be asked for 
than the theme of the reformed iail-hirxi, 
Daniel Ordxxay is a Wall Street broker 
xvho in the middle of a successful career 
uses other people's money for singula- 
tion, is caught and sent to prison tor th*e 
years. His xvife with his txvo children 
has taken refuge xvith his father, and has 
warned the culprit that she is not coming 
back to him. The story begins at the 
moment of his release — a man hardly 
middle-aged, xvith his xvay to make in a 
hostile xx*orld. He is drawn in the direc- 
tion of Virginia, xvhere his wife and 
children are. but makes no attempt to 
see or communicate xvith them. 1 lo finds 
himself, hxnsore and xvcarv, in the 
shabby little town of Tappahatmock, 
xvhere he funis a job, and eventually In- 
comes the most influential man in the 
community. An intimacy springs up 
with a charming Virginia girl of a family 
which has soon bettor days, xvho, not 
knoxving that he is married, falls in love 
xvith him. As his xvife is one of the unco' 
guid, xvith regard to xvhom he has boon 
sufficiently disillusionised by her desertion 
of him in his emergency, his oxvn heart 
is really free. Hoxvever, the understand- 
ing at xvhich Ordxvay and the girl arrive 
is perfectly, if not quite convincingly, 
blameless, lie has become a lay preacher 
and general guxl Samaritan to the com- 
munity, and is on the eve of becoming 
mayor when a fclloxv-convict xvlmsc chi- 
canery he has thxvarted reveals his past. 
He has nothing to say to the charge, anil 
is preparing to leave town xvhen he gets 
word by telegraph of his father's death. 
Hoxv his people know of his whereabouts 
is in no way explained ; the thing is as un- 
abashedly timely as the reprieve xvhich (in 
fiction) customarily deprives the hang- 
man of his prey. The jail-bird forthwith 



goes back to his own, is given a position 
in his uncle's office, and becomes a fifth 
wheel in the domestic economy. His 
wife receives him upon formal terms, his 
daughter presently runs away with a 
rich cad. She is an intolerable young 
person, inexcusably spoiled and shielded 
by the father; she has her mother's sel- 
fishness, and an utter unscrupulousness 
in money matters, which may be supposed 
to be the curse of the father descended 
upon the child. In the end she forges her 
husband's name for a large sum, and her 
father takes the blame upon himself. The 
matter is hushed up by the uncle, but it is 
only left for Ordway to make his escape 
once again from an unsavoury past. He 
returns to Tappahannock in time to save 
the community from a great calamity, 
then pursues his solitary way toward an 
altogether indeterminate future. It is a 
good theme, but unfortunately it remains 
a theme. Its figures, with one exception, 
are puppets, not human beings. The 
wife, the uncle, the daughter, Ordway 
himself, move according to the will of 
the inventor, but they have no blood or 
breath of their own. They are not un- 
suggestive of certain actual and familiar 
types; but for the rest they represent 
contrivance and exegesis, not creation. 
Ordway is not a live person who has his 
moments of strength and of weakness, of 
benignance and selfishness; he is an in- 
animate composite of the author's notes 
on two or three kinds of person. His 
success among the rustics of Tappa- 
hannock is not adequately accounted for, 
and his fatuous attitude toward his silly 
daughter is not made sufficiently toler- 
able. We are told a good many things 
about his nobility, his self-sacrifice, his 
commanding power, but they do not per- 
suade us that he is anything but a very 
ordinary person, if he is a person at all. 
What is really wanting is a sense of 
humour, which is, strange as it may seem, 
the last thing demanded of its novelists 
by our public. We may be thankful for 
the lack of funny business in Miss Glas- 
gow's book, but we have still to regret its 
lack of proportion, of perspective, of that 
indefinable circumambient atmosphere, of 
insight and sympathy with which true 
humour surrounds its material. 

H. W. Boynton. 


Eden Phillpotts's "The Mother of 

the Man"* 

One of the French painters somewhere 
expresses his opinion of the artist who 
"cannot find enough to paint during his 
entire lifetime in a radius of four miles 
around his home." It is probable that 
this saying was not intended for a com- 
mending of the monotonous photographic 
reiteration of the infinitely little, but for 
a hint of the bigness that confined space 
can reveal to him who sees. Eden Phill- 
potts has always been of this way of 
thinking, and his work thus far has 
shown him capable of discovering the 
bigness of human emotions and human 
passions on the narrow stage of a coun- 
try village, the inhabitants of which are 
but a paltry group of simple people. In 
his latest novel he has given us all the 
good qualities of his maturing talent, 
and has made a book which is hard to 
discuss in terms of calm, every-day crit- 
icism. It is the sort of novel the thought- 
ful reader will want to keep, that he may 
return to it again and again, to browse 
here and there upon its pages. 

It is big — big with the bigness of the 
moors that stretch around the tiny ham- 
let of Merivale, where the scene is laid ; 
big with the bigness of elemental human 
nature. The author, in calm assurance 
of his power, has set himself many a trap 
and snare and has avoided them greatly. 
The slow, unhurried style of the narra- 
tive, the stepping aside frequently to cull 
a quaint bit of humour, to enjoy the out- 
spread beauty of nature — this of itself is 
very restful in these rushing days, but 
very dangerous if the writer's outlook on 
life is not big enough to lift up the 
reader and carry him over and beyond 
an interest in the mere "story." Also, 
the careful and elaborate setting of each 
chapter is a pitfall, if the scene that fol- 
lows proves an anti-climax. Now and 
then, of course, it will happen, even in 
this book, but then the setting itself, the 
nature descriptions, are so beautiful that 
they carry within themselves the best 
justification of their existence. Who 

♦The Mother of the Man. By Eden Phill- 
potts. New York: Dodd, Mead and Com- 



can quarrel with a bit like the following, 
culled from many others of equal value, 
even if it does halt the course of th<e 
narrative : 

Spring had fondled the trees and they 
were full of the mellow light of opening 
buds. The river ran clear and flashed a 
salute to each moss-clad stone upon her 
way. She twinkled into foam at many 
falls; she loitered in backwaters and little 
bays; she smoothed her face to stillness that 
young stars and buds and delicious things, 
bursting their sheaths, might bend and see 
their own loveliness. The oaks were giv- 
ing out an amber light under the sunshine; 
the alders opened tiny trim fans of green; 
the great woodrush and water parsnip 
sprawled with their feet in the river; and 
kingcups, cuckoo-flowers and the foliage of 
the iris brightened the water-meadows. Aloft, 
along deep hillsides under Vixen Tor, 
countless pavilions of the larch were glit- 
tering in their first rapture of young green. 
The vernal glory of them was touched and 
outlined with pure light, so that each par- 
ticular tree made itself felt in the mass, and 
uttered that magic note of reality and life, 
beyond all power of artist's word or paint- 
er's stain to win from Nature and set upon 
paper. Each spire of all these myriad spires 
preserved a gracious individual distinction 
in the commonwealth; perhaps not one 
would have been missed; yet not one could 
have been spared from that emerald mantel 
here superbly flung upon the shoulders of 
the spring. Light dwelt in them, as in its 
proper home; their untold glory held even 
children's eyes. And beneath them ran the 
river and spread fields that echoed with the 
music of lambs. 

Who would quarrel also with whole 
chapters that have nothing to do with 
the story as such, but are too delicious 
to be missed in their quaint humour and 
charming insight into character? The 
temptation merely to quote and grow 
enthusiastic is very strong in handling a 
book of this sort. 

The story itself, the slow development 
of the character of the young Dartmoor 
farmer, Ives Pomeroy, under the influ- 
ence of his mother's wise and tender 
love during her life and the memory of 
it after her death, is one that holds the 
reader. The men and women in this 

little group of moor villagers are all 
alive, distinct individualities, interesting 
all because they live. They come so near 
nature that their emotions and passions 
are swayed by the vastness of the moor 
about them, awing them into littleness, 
and yet sweeping away much of the arti- 
ficial littleness of civilised life. There 
is a loving and intimate comprehension 
of that much of the Infinitely Little that 
must be understood if we are to measure 
true greatness ; there is a quaint and true 
touch of characterising in dialogue, 
which is the work of a consummate 
artist; there is humour of an unusual 
sort; and there is a deep and awe-filled 
reverence for the greatest of all love, 
Mother Love, which sweeps onward and 
upward and reaches its climax in the 
superb chapters Old Texts and The Sun- 
set Fire, which practically close the book. 
In a word, this novel, The Mother of 
the Man, is that rare and beautiful thing, 
the work of a poet who has something 
to say. 

/. Marchand. 


Mr. Oppenheim's "The Great 

Novelists who have envied Mr. Oppen- 
heim his evident possession of the Great 
Secret may be pardoned for regarding 
the title of his latest book as a deliberate 
taunt flung in the faces of his less suc- 
cessful rivals. Of the men who supply 
the staple product of the fiction market 
not one has more fully mastered the trick 
of turning out a perfectly regular and de- 
pendable article. The Oppenheim brand 
is justly esteemed by shrewd buyers. The 
stories bearing this label always "grade" 
well, for thev contain the best of ma- 
terials and workmanship. Nothing better 
for their purpose is manufactured any- 

Mr. Oppenheim is actually a manu- 
facturer of a superior kind. No reproach 
is implied in this. On the contrary, there 
is no reason why the supplying of the 
market demand for fiction of a certain 
class should be put on any other plane, 
and Mr. Oppenheim deserves applause 

*The Great Secret. By E. Phillips Oppen- 
heim. Boston: Little, Brown and Company. 



and thanks for conducting his business 
in a conscientious manner. I have not 
read all of his stories, but I have never 
read one of them without pleasure. 

Yet in spite of the most scrupulous 
care and the utmost impersonality of 
method, fiction cannot be turned out with 
quite the uniformity of steel rails. I 
doubt whether the most zealous admirer 
of Mr. Oppenheim could name every one 
of his novels and properly differentiate 
them ; but differences nevertheless exist, 
and this or that book may stand out from 
the others with some individuality of out- 
line. It is not likely that The Great 
Secret will be distinguished for merit 
above its fellows; but it may achieve a 
mild distinction in this country because 
its author has allowed himself to indulge 
in gentle sarcasm at the expense of the 
American woman. Never has he con- 
structed a more remarkable scene than 
the one which he represents as taking 
place in a Lenox country house, the seat 
of a great American financial magnate. 
Mrs. Van Reinberg has returned to her 
native land from Europe, bringing in 
tow the legitimist heir to the French 
throne. In her library, after a dinner 
party, she assembles six millionaires, in- 
cluding her husband, and their wives. 
These representatives of American 
finance and American society are ad- 
dressed by the French heir, who proposes 
that each of the men shall furnish two 
million dollars to a fund for the purpose 
of placing him on the throne. In con- 
sideration of this slight assistance the 
respective wives are to be allowed to take 
their pick of French titles of nobility and 
thus realise their social ambitions. The 
proposal is discussed gravely, but the 
well-known subserviency of American 
men to their wives' whims leaves no room 
for doubt as to the result. The men 
good-naturedly consent, and the wives 
proceed to draw lots for the available 
titles. The incident is described not in a 
spirit of burlesque, but quite seriously as 
a link in the chain of international plot- 
ting with which the story is concerned. 

This, it may be thought, is going it 
rather steep. Mr. Oppenheim makes 
partial amends, however, to a country 
which buys his books in liberal numbers 
by making his heroine a lovely if some- 

what erratic American girl, and he more 
than evens matters by holding up Ger- 
many and her ruler to the scorn and 
hatred of mankind. If America is ridicu- 
lous, Germany is desperately wicked ; for 
the arch villain of this story is no less a 
personage than the Kaiser himself. The 
Great Secret, which leaks out bit by bit 
in the course of the narrative, is a Ger- 
man plot to destroy the English fleet and 
bring about the downfall of England as a 
world power. The ingredients in the plot 
are exactly the same as in all such con- 
coctions, and if they furnish an hour's 
amusement it is not because of their 

Mr. Oppenheim undeniably has the 
gift of keeping his story moving. It 
would be cruel, however, to subject it to 
an analysis which should follow the 
threads of the plot an inch outside of his 
pages. This is not one of those mystery 
stories which offer a real challenge to the 
reader's analytical faculty; The truth is 
that Mr. Oppenheim, entertaining as he 
may sometimes be, is sadly superficial. 
His story has but two dimensions. Never 
does he allow himself to follow a motive 
below the surface. Incident after inci- 
dent is introduced to keep the plot boil- 
ing, the leadings of which are abandoned 
the instant they have served their imme- 
diate purpose. Superficially the thing 
hangs together after a fashion. But the 
test of a really good mystery story is that 
it should sound consistent and plausible 
on a second reading, with the end plainly 
in view at every step. This test would 
work havoc with the plot of The Great 
Secret. Even in retrospect, without ref- 
erence to the text for the refreshing of 
the memory, one can recall many a loose 
end — inconsistencies and gaps, false 
scents that lead nowhere, motives that 
do not motivate, promises of explana- 
tions that never come. One shudders to 
think what a careful rereading might 

And yet this is perhaps the crowning 
proof of Mr. Oppenheim's cleverness. 
Doubtless he knows his public better than 
any one else. There are plenty of novel 
readers whose memories extend no fur- 
ther back than the page they have just 
turned. The Great Secret will suit them 
down to the ground. Ward Clark. 


OME readers of The 
Bookman will have 
rubbed their eyes at a 
recent article therein by 
Mr. Charles Whibley on, 
or called, "The Ameri- 

can Language." They 

will have known that writer as a capable 
critic and a skilful biographer, a person 
whose habit it is to have something to 
say and to say it well. They will have 
been likely to recall, at least, his brilliant 
book on Thackeray, published in America 
some years ago, and altogether the best 
thing of the kind that had been or has 
been done. And they will have found 
themselves wondering that it should still 
be possible for an Englishman of such 
standing to be so merely careless and 
peevish in his treatment of the particular 
theme. Would it not be wise for the 
writer of this class to acquaint himself 
somewhat with the literature of the sub- 
ject? The perusal of Richard Grant 
White's essay on "British and American 
English," written some forty years ago, 
would prevent his commoner errors of 
statement, and some knowledge of the 
recent treatment of the same matter by 

Mr. Brander Matthews would do much 
for him. There was a time ere Eng- 
land's griefs began when every rood of 
ground maintained its divinely appointed 
critic of all matters connected with 
America. We really ought to be able to 
suppose that time past, to expect of the 
island censor more knowledge and less 
animus, less vacancy and more openness 
of mind. Surely it would be well for 
him to look a little into the causes of 
that odd air of disquiet with which he 
approaches us, and to subdue at least 
the evidences of his irritation. We are 
used to the "certain condescension," but 
we own to a weakness for being put in 
our places if not with urbanity, at least 
without manifest ill-nature. 

The awkward fact seems to be that 
many Englishmen continue to be an- 
noyed, enraged even, by those differences 
in usage which are merely interesting to 
us. It offends them that we are not 
thoroughly ashamed of ourselves for be- 
ing unlike them. They feel constrained 
to take sides violently in regard to such 
questions as the question of speech. And 
it is made painfully evident from time to 
time that this is not the attitude of the 

f Mi; Bookman. 


To the English traveller in America the language 

■Dd a surprise. It ii his own, yet not his own. It 
teems to him a caricature of English, a phantom 
Ipeech. ghostly yel familiar, such as he might hear in 
a land of dreams. He recognise) its broad linea- 
ments; its lesser details evade or confuae him. He 
acknowledges that the two tongues have a common 
basis. Their grammatital framework is identical. The 
small change of language — the adverbs and preposi- 
tions—though sometimes strangely used in America, 
are not strange to an English ear. And there the 

give a new turn to the ancient speech. The traveller 
feels as though he were confronted with an old friend 
tricked out in an odd suit of clothes, and master of a 


only t 

I been colonised by 

might have wandered as far from English as French 
M Spanish has wandered from Latin. It might have 
invented fresh inflections and shaped its own syntax. 

opment of speech, 

before John 

Smith set foot in 

ed Virginia. 

inge of books, new; 

ipapers. and 

jrmity. An. 

\mericaiis, having 

accepted a r 

cady-made system 

ammar. were force 

etitl and multi-colo. 

iry. Nor do they 

pt to belittle (heii 

sh an exclusive pr 

ivilege. Tho 

to call America 

"God's own 

a bluff heartiness that they 

m of the speech w 

hich Chaucer 

■ and Shakespeare 

led. It is their f 

rved the old lang 

extinction. Tbey 

id a vast deal of 

ingenuity in 

the fruitless at- 

: to prove that e 

.-en their di 

alectt have their 

6 4 


true-born shopkeeper merely. One thinks 
of nothing by way of parallel to the ab- 
surd yet not unfamiliar spectacle of the 
(in most respects) cultivated and impas- 
sive Londoner charging at the red rag 
of "Americanism" — unless it be our "dis- 
trict school" demonstrations against that 
Britisher and redcoat who is fabled to 
have caused us inconvenience in or about 
the year 1776. Only by the provincial- 
ism of our backwoods may we parallel the 
provincialism of that (in some regards) 
littlest of little Englanders,the Londoner. 
Of that cockney provincialism Matthew 
Arnold said long ago whatever needed to 
be said — of that "serious, settled, fierce, 
narrow, provincial misconception of the 
whole relative value of one's own things 
and the things of others." Yes, in the 
present instance, it is Mr. Whibley's 
gloomy ferocity, rather than his casual- 
ness in point of assertion or his narrow- 
ness in point of view that is chiefly dis- 

"To the English traveller," he begins 
ominously, "the language which he hears 
spoken about him is at once a puzzle and 
a surprise." It is an odd fact that this 
is probably true, since it is the habit of 
the English traveller, if we may trust his 
own records, to be surprised, indignantly 
surprised, by the most natural differences 

between conditions abroad and condi- 
tions at home. It is not clear why any 
traveller should be surprised by the fact 
that the speech of, say, New York sounds 
unlike the speech of London. But appar- 
ently neither common sense, fiction, nor 
the American abroad is of power to con- 
vince the sanguine Briton; from Liver- 
pool to Sandy Hook he hopes against 
hope that he may find all well with us 
here. Of course the plain fact is a shock. 
Fancy! Americans do not speak like 
Englishmen ! Now it would appear to be 
true that the American, whether at home 
or in England, commonly finds himself 
amused and interested by the enuncia- 
tion, the cadence, the locutions peculiar 
to British speech — especially, of course, 
the less familiar speech of the mob. 
These peculiarities may puzzle his ear, 
but they do not surprise him ; least of all 
does it occur to him that they are causes 
of offence. Why should the English ver- 
nacular be like the American? But the 
mere fact of difference so disturbs Mr. 
Whibley's peace of mind that he is 
unable to approach the discussion of it 
with anything approaching that "absence 
of prejudice and willingness to accommo- 
date one's self," which for some reason 
Baedeker thinks it well to recommend to 
the English traveller in this strange land. 

roots deep down in the soil of classical English. And 
when proofs are demanded, they are indeed a sorry 
few. A vast edifice of mistaken pride has been estab- 
lished upon the insecure basis of three words — fall, 
gotten, and bully. These once were familiar English, 
and they are English no more. The word "fall," "the 
fall of the leaf," which beautifully echoes the thought 
of spring, survives only in our provinces. It makes 
but a furtive and infrequent appearance in our litera- 
ture. Chaucer knows it not, nor Shakespeare. John- 
son cites but one illustration of its use — from Dry den: 

"What crowds of patients the town-doctor kills, 
Or how last fall he rais'd the weekly bills.' 


On the other side of the Atlantic it is universally 
heard and written. There the word "autumn" is un- 
known, and though there is a dignity in the Latin 
word, ennobled by our orators and poets, there is none 
with a sense of style who will not applaud the choice 
of America. 

But if it may take a lawful pride in "fall," America 
need not boast the use of "gotten." The termination, 
which survives by an unexplained accident of lan- 
guage, adds nothing of sense or sound to the word. 
It is like a piece of dead wood in a tree, and is better 
lopped off. Nor does the use of "bully" prove a 
wholesome respect for the past. It is true that our 
Elizabethans used this adjective in the sense of great 

or noble. "Come," writes Ben Jonson in The 
Poetaster, "I love bully Horace/" 

But in England the word was never of universal 
application, and was sternly reserved for poets, kings 
and heroes. In modern America there is nothing that 
may not be "bully," if it meet with your approval. 
"A bully place," "a bully boat," "a bully blare"— 
these show how far the word has departed from its 
origin. And its descent is not unbroken. Overlooked 
for centuries, it was revived (or re-invented) in 
America some fifty years ago, and it is not to Dekker 
and Ben Jonson that we must look for palliation of 
its misuse. 

Words have their fates. By a caprice of fortune 
one is taken, another is left. This is restricted to a 
narrow use; that wanders free over the plain of mean- 
ing. And thus we may explain many of the varia- 
tions of English and American speech. A simple 
word crosses the ocean and takes new tasks upon 
itself. The word "parlour," for instance, is dying in 
our midst, while "parlor" gains a fresh vigour from an 
increasing and illegitimate employment Originally, 
a room in a religious house, a parlour (or parloir) 
became a place of reception or entertainment. Two 

• Innumerable examples might be culled from the 
literature of the seventeenth century. One other will 
suffice here, taken from Dekker's Shoemakers' Holi- 
day: "Yet I'll shave it off, and stuff tennis-ball with 
it, to please my bully king/' 



That complaisant authority of the 
road further takes occasion to remark, 
somewhere between his red covers, that 
the speech of the cultivated American 
differs very little from that of the culti- 
vated Englishman. This assertion an 
American may "except before excepted." 
There are distinct differences in tone and 
cadence. The American makes com- 
paratively little use of the rising inflec- 
tion, and the range of his speaking voice 
is commonly narrower. On the other 
hand, while the Englishman inclines to 
"produce" his voice from the throat, the 
American speaks from his chest, if not 
(and Mr. Whibley is gracious on this 
point) from his nose. If the comparison 
had to do with the tradesman or labour- 
ing classes, the amount of variation in 
these matters would be somewhat greater, 
and the variation in matters of diction 
very much greater. But one can only 
hark back to the trite remark that all 
such variations are less than between the 
Englishman of Yorkshire and the Eng- 
lishman of Norfolk, who differ more 
widely in speech, as White remarked 
years ago, than "any two of the same 
race born and bred, however remotely 
from each other, in this country." But 
the Yorkshire dialect, like the Cockney 

centuries ago an air of elegance hung about it It 
suggested spinets and powdered wigs. And then as 
fashion turned to commonness, the parlour grew stuffy 
with disuse, until it is to-day the room reserved for a 
vain display, consecrated to wax flowers and framed 
photographs, hermetically sealed, save when the voice 
of gentility bids its furtive door be opened. The 
American "parlor" resembles the "parlour" of the 
eighteenth century as little as the "parlour" of the 
Victorian age. It is busy, public, and multifarious. 
It means so many things that at last it carries no 
other meaning than that of a false elegance. It is in 
a dentist's parlor that the American's teeth are gilded; 
he is shaved in a tonsorial parlor; he travels in a 
parlor car; and in Miss Maudie's parlor sees how far 
an ancient word may wander from its origin. One 
example, of many, will illustrate the accidents which 
beset the life of words. No examples will justify the 
paradox, which has nattered the vanity of some Ameri- 
can critics, that their language has faithfully adhered 
to the tradition of English speech. 

The vocabulary of America, like the country itself, 
is a strange medley. All the languages of Europe, 
besides Yiddish, have been pilfered for its composi- 
tion. Some words it has assimilated into itself, others 
it holds, as it were, by a temporary loan. And in its 
choice or invention it follows two divergent, even 
opposite paths. On the one hand it pursues and 
gathers to itself barbarous, inexpressive Latinisms; on 
the other, it is eager in its quest after a free and 

patter, is beyond Mr. Whibley's range of 
vision as he looks out to sea. 

It is to be supposed that the very fact 
of the comparative consistency of our 
speech misleads the hasty observer of 
this type ; so that he fancies himself safe 
in taking any phrase from the lips of any 
American as characteristic of "the Amer- 
ican Language." As it chances, it is the 
"American" of the street-corner and the 
cheap newspaper which Mr. Whibley is 
interested in, and which he heavy-heart- 
edly and heavyrhandedly deals with as 
the national speech. So we find him, 
after quoting a long rigmarole in slang 
from the select lips of a Chicago saloon- 
keeper, remarking innocently (though 
with an air of reproof) : "It is not an 
elegant method of speech, but such as it 
is, it bears as close a resemblance to the 
dialect of Chicago as can be transferred 
from ear to eye." And we have no 
reason to doubt that he regards the bit of 
racing lingo which he has "culled from 
the New York World" as characteristic 
of that jejune, though bustling me- 
tropolis. It would hardly occur to a cul- 
tivated American to judge the speech of 
London by Mr. Jacobs and the coster- 
singers. It would certainly not occur to 
him to construct an imaginary vernacular 

living slang. That a country which makes a constant 
boast of its practical intelligence should delight in 
long, flat, cumbrous collections of syllables, such as 
"locate," "operate," "antagonise," "transportation," 
"commutation," and "proposition," is an irony off 
civilisation. These words, if words they may be 
called, are hideous to the eye, offensive to the ear, 
and meaningless to the brain. They are the base coins 
of language. They bear upon their face no decent 
superscription. They are put upon the street, fresh 
from some smasher's den, and not even the news- 
papers, contemptuous as they are of style, have reason 
to be proud of them. Nor is there any clear link be- 
tween them and the work thrust upon them. Why 
should the poor holder of a season-ticket have the 
grim word "commutation" hung about his neck? 
Why should the simple business of going from one 
place to another be labelled "transportation"? And 
these words are apt and lucid compared with "proposi- 
tion." Now "proposition" is America's maid of all 
work. It means everything or nothing. It may be 
masculine, feminine, neuter — he, she, it It is tough 
or firm, cold or warm, according to circumstances. 
But it has no more sense than an expletive, and its 
popularity is a clear proof of a starved imagination. 

And while the American language is collecting 
these dried and shrivelled specimens of verbiage it 
does not disdain the many-coloured flowers of lively 
speech. In other words, it gives as ready a welcome 
to the last experiment in slang as to its false and 



of Greater England from such data and 
then to condemn it because it differed in 
many respects from the speech of his 
own superior class. 

It is, however, a familiar experience to 
find our London critic, when his com- 
parisons with America concern trade, 
military prestige, and the like, regarding 
England as the Empire — South Africa, 
India, New Zealand, Hong-Kong. But 
when matters of literature, manners, 
or speech are in point, England is Lon- 
don, and London at its best. This atti- 
tude may as well be accepted as that in 
which Mr. Whibley, turning his mind 
casually to the matter of American 
speech, naturally found himself. On the 
basis of his researches in the diction of 
the street-corner and the vulgar news- 
paper, fancy reconstructs for him, ex 
ungue, a loathly bogy of language, 
which he is constrained to compare un- 
favourably with his own admirable 

His reflections upon the impropriety 
of American slang all good citizens and 
subjects will cordially applaud. It is 
always in order to heave a rock (or chivy 
a cobbler) at the lame dog of slang, in 
the interests of the great god of humbug. 
For it is generally acknowledged in the 

best circles that slang is a monster of 
frightful mien, just as it is generally ac- 
knowledged in the same quarters that 
war is hell. Thus far, to be sure, man- 
kind has not been able to do without 
cither; but slang will doubtless be abol- 
ished in the year which sees the adoption 
of the golden rule. Meanwhile there 
seems to be no known means of obstruct- 
ing its primrose way either in England or 
in America. For the present, American 
slang, being far more varied and ingen- 
ious, is naturally an affront to British 
ears. For that matter, even our simplest 
contrivances in this kind do not please 
them ; apparently "bally," and "bloom- 
ing," and "ripping," and "jolly" seem to 
them to be separated by more than an 
Atlantic barrier from "blamed," and 
"dandy," "and "corking," and "bully." 
So be it. Some wonder may be ex- 
pressed that Mr. Whibley should have 
introduced a long paragraph on thieves' 
cant in this connection. Cant is not at 
all the same thing as slang ; the argot of 
criminals is a settled tongue, common to 
England and America. "Graft" and 
"grafter" are the only words it has con- 
tributed to general American use, and 
useful words they are. 

More than anything else, evidently, it 

pompous Latinisms. Nor is the welcome given in 
vain. Never before in the world's history has slang 
flourished as it has flourished in America, and its 
triumph is not surprising. It is more than any arti- 
fice of speech the mark of a young and changing 
people. Youth has a natural love of metaphor and 
imagery; its pride delights in the mysteries of a 
technical vocabulary; it is happiest when it can fence 
itself about by the privilege of an exclusive and ob- 
scure tongue. And what is slang but metaphor? 
There is no class, no cult, no trade, no sport which 
will not provide some strange words or images to the 
general stock of language, and America's variety has 
been as quick an encouragement to the growth of 
slang as her youth. She levies contributions upon 
every batch of immigrants. The Old World has thus 
come to the aid of the New. Spanish, Chinese, Ger- 
man and Yiddish have all paid their toll. The abo- 
riginal speech of the Indians, and its debased lingo, 
Chinook, have given freely of their wealth. And 
not only many tongues but many employments have 
enhanced the picturesq'ieness of American slang. 
Now, America has not yet lost touch with her begin- 
nings. The spirit of adventure is still strong within 
her. There is no country within whose borders so 
many lives are led. The pioneer still jostles the mil- 
lionaire. The backwoods are not far distant from 
Wall Street. The farmers of Ohio, the cowboy of 
Texas, the miners of Nevada, owe allegiance to the 
same Government, and shape their same speech each to 

their own purpose. Every State is a separate country, 
and cultivates a separate dialect. Then come base- 
ball, poker, and the race-course, with their own meta- 
phors to swell the hoard. And the result is a lan- 
guage of the street and camp, brilliant in colour, mul- 
tiform in character, which has not a rival in the his- 
tory of speech. 

There remains the cant of the grafters and guns, 
the coves that work upon the cross in the great 
cities. In England, as in France, this strange gib- 
berish is the oldest and richest form of slang. 
Whence it came is still a puzzle of the philologists. 
Harrison in his Description of England (1577) with a 
dogmatism which is not justified sets a precise date 
upon its invention. "In counterfeiting the Egyptian 
rogues." says he of the vagabonds, who then infested 
England, "they have devised a language among them- 
selves which they name Canting, but others Pedlar's 
French, a speech compact thirty years since of Eng- 
lish, and a great number of odd words of their own 
devising, without all order or reason, and yet such is 
it that none but themselves are able to understand. 
The first deviser thereof was hanged by the neck, a 
just reward no doubt for his deserts, and a common 
end to all of that profession." This lingo, called 
indifferently Thieves' Latin or St. Giles's Greek, 
was assuredly not the invention of one brain. The 
work of many, it supplied an imperious need. It 
was at once an expression of pride and a shield of 
defence. Those who understood it proved by its use 



is our exuberance, our verbal fecundity, 
which troubles this not very amiable 
censor. His explanation of it is, one 
must admit, both charitable and ingen- 
ious. If, he says, America had been col- 
onised before the invention of printing, 
"American might have wandered as far 
from English as French or Spanish has 
wandered from Latin." "American" 
would have had to be rather lively about 
it. However, it was not destined to be 
put to the test. "The easy interchange 
of books, newspapers, and other mer- 
chandise insured a certain uniformity." 
One speculates as to what this "other 
merchandise" may have been — almanacs, 
possibly, or spelling-charts. "And so it 
was that the Americans, having accepted 
a ready-made system of grammar, were 
forced to express their fancy in an ener- 
getic and multi-coloured vocabulary." It 
must be owned that the novel interpreta- 
tion of history here suggested has its 
quaint and pleasing aspect. The Pilgrim 
Fathers possessed, it seems, a unique dis- 
tinction among English colonists which 
has not hitherto been noted. They deter- 
mined that upon their arrival in America 
they would straightway cease to be Eng- 
lishmen and become Americans. They 
perceived that they would need a lan- 

guage at once; but desirable as they 
would doubtless have felt it to have a 
tongue quite their own, exigency seemed 
to point to a compromise. So they de- 
cided to accept the ready-made system of 
English grammar; a wise course which 
left nothing for them to do after stepping 
off at Plymouth Rock but to invent a new 

Alas, as one reluctantly disengages 
himself from the fairy toils of this en- 
gaging fancy, one perceives that the mod- 
ern Londoner (not to speak of the mod- 
ern Australian or Canadian) may as well 
be said to have "accepted a ready-made 
system of grammar" as the modern 
American. One further perceives that 
but for the invention of printing the 
speech of London might have changed as 
much between Shakespeare and Sir Alfred 
Austin as it did during the far shorter 
period between Chaucer and Shake- 
speare. And, finally, one reflects that 
in vocabulary as well as in grammar, the 
best American usage has departed no 
further from early seventeenth century 
English than the best British usage. 

Not- that the latter fact, if it be a fact, 
is of overwhelming importance. Mr. 
Whibley declares it to be the "favourite 
boast" of Americans "that they have pre- 

that they belonged to a class apart; and, being unin- 
telligible to the respectable majority, they could com- 
municate with one another secretly, as they hoped, 
and without fear of detection. Throughout the sev- 
enteenth and eighteenth centuries the flash tongue 
grew and was changed; it crossed the Atlantic with 
the early settlers; and it has left its marks upon the 
dialect of the American underworld. But its in- 
fluence upon the common slang has been light in 
America, as in England. It is as severely technical aa 
the language of science, and is familiar chiefly to 
policemen, tramps and informers. As slang leaves , 
the tavern and the street-corner to invade the theatre, 
the office and even the drawing-room, those who aim 
at a variety of speech need not borrow from the cant 
of the vagabonds, and it is not surprising that to-day 
the vulgar tongue, in America as in England, bor- 
rows more from "soldiers on the long march, seamen 
at the capstern, and ladies disposing of fish," than 
from the common cursitors and cony-catchers, who 
once dominated it. 

The use of slang proves at once the wealth and 
poverty of a language. It proves its wealth when it 
reflects a living, moving image. It proves its poverty, 
when it is nothing more than the vain echo of a 
familiar catchword. At its best it is an ornament of 
speech; at its worst it is a labour-saving device. And 
it is for this reason that the vulgar American de- 
lights in the baser kind of slang: it seems to insure 
him an easy effect. He must be picturesque at all 

costs. Sometimes he reaches the goal of his ambition 
by a purposed extravagance. What can be more fool- 
ish than the description which follows of a man equal 
to the most difficult occasion: "He can light hit 
cigar when the battle is on with the friction of a 
passing cannon-ball." In yet worse taste is another 
piece of fustian invented by the same author : "When 
a 'twister* off the hills gets ready to do business in a 
20-knot sou'wester it sends no messenger boys ahead 
to distribute its itinerary handbills." There is no 
fault of style which these few lines do not display. 
They combine, with a singular success, commonness 
and pomp. The epic poets of old were wont to illus- 
trate the life of man by the phenomena of nature. 
The vulgar American reverses the process: he illus- 
trates nature by the pavement. 

Exaggeration, then, is an easy artifice of effect. 
Another is the constant repetition of certain words 
and phrases which have lost their meaning by detri- 
tion, and yet are known to all. Not to be disap- 
pointed is sometimes as pleasant as to be surprised. 
A catchword, passed from one to another, is often a 
signal of sympathy, and many a man has passed for a 
wit merely because his tinkling brain has given back 
the echo which was expected. In stereotyped phrases, 
in ready-made sentences, in the small change of mean- 
ingless words the American language is peculiarly 
rich. "To cut ice," "to get next to," "to deliver the 
goods" — these and similar expressions, of no obvious 
merit in themselves, long ago lost their freshness and 



served the old language from extinction." 
He does not explain whether he has been 
accustomed to hear this absurd boast on 
American street-corners, or to read it in 
the New York World. Some doubt sug- 
gests itself as to whether many Ameri- 
cans are familiar with it. Attention has 
no doubt been called more than once to 
the interesting fact that there are a good 
many words and phrases in use here, 
many of them colloquially and locally, 
which formerly had good standing in 
England, but are now obsolete there. 
These are honest heirlooms in the posses- 
sion of which we may be permitted a 
measure of satisfaction. But most of us 
will have been surprised to learn from 
Mr. Whibley that "a vast edifice of mis- 
taken pride has been established upon the 
insecure basis of three such words," or, 
indeed, of any number of such words. 

The censor is amusingly earnest in de- 
molishing his man of straw. The words 
upon which he pounces, "fall," "gotten" 
and "bully," seem rather inoffensive. 
"Fall" indeed he pronounces a better 
word than "autumn." We agree with 
him, but honour compels us to own that 
"autumn," far from being "unknown" 
here, is a word with which we commonly 
assault each other's ears. For "gotten 


he has no quarter: "The termination, 
which survives by an unexplained acci- 
dent of language, adds nothing of sense 
or sound to the word." A similar acci- 
dent would seem to have preserved the 
termination in forgotten, begotten— en 
being the natural ending for the strong 
verb. It is hard to account for the fact 
that "gotten" is no longer in good or 
even frequent use in America. What is 
said of "bully" is equally beside the point. 
The word had two common uses in the 
older English vernacular. In the mean- 
ing which Mr. Whibley recognises, the 
word is obsolete both here and in Eng- 
land. In the second meaning, of "jovial," 
"merry," it has survived in our vernacu- 
lar ; to be perverted by the careless in a 
slang use exactly analogous to the Eng- 
lish use of "beastly" or "nasty" or 
"blooming" or "jolly," words which we 
happen to retain here only in their pure 
meaning. "Parlour" is another word to 
be thrown in our teeth because beside our 
legitimate use of it there is a cheap and 
silly use. In itself it is obviously a word 
not only more graceful, but of better 
pedigree, than "drawing-room." So it 
must be said that the maligned "guess" is 
a properer word for "incline to think" 
(the meaning in which it is almost in- 

are not likely to assume a dignity with age. But they 
save trouble; they establish an understanding between 
him who speaks and him who hears; and when they 
are interjected into a discourse they serve the pur- 
pose of gestures. To exclaim "I should smile," or 
"I should cough." is not of much help in an argu- 
ment, but it implies a knowledge not merely of popu- 
lar speech, but of your interlocutor. 

Slang is better heard than read. The child of the 
street or the hedgerow, it assumes in print a smug 
air which does not belong to it, or worse still it is 
charged with the vice or the vagabondage which it 
expresses. And so it is that slang words have a life 
as closely packed with adventure as is the life of 
those who use them with the quickest understanding. 
To ask what becomes of last year's slang is as rash as 
to speculate on the fate of last year's literature. 
Many specimens perish in the gutter, where they were 
born, after living a precarious life in the mouths of 
men. Others are gathered into dictionaries, and sur- 
vive to become the sport of philologists. For the 
worst of tlfeir kind special lexicons are designed, 
which, like prisons and workhouses, admit only the 
disreputable, as though Victor Hugo's definition — 
"L' argot, e'est le verbe devenir format" — were amply 
justified. The journals, too, which take their material 
where they find it. give to many specimens of slang a 
life as long as their own. It is scarcely possible, for 
instance, to pick up a newspaper that does not turn 
the word cinch to tome strange purpose. The form 

and origin of the word are worthy a better fate. It 
passed from Spain into the Western States, and was 
the name given to saddle-girths of leather or woven 
horsehair. It suggests Mexican horsemanship and the 
open prairie. The explanation given in the Century 
Dictionary will make clear its meaning to the un- 
travelled. "The two ends of the tough cordage, which 
constitute the cinch, terminate in long, narrow strips 
of leather, called lAtigos, which connect the cinches 
with the saddle, and are run through an iron ring, 
called the larigo ring, and then tied by a series of 
complicated turns and knots, known only to the craft." 
In the West it is still used in its natural and digni- 
fied sense. For example: "At Giles's ranch, on the 
divide, the party halted to cinch up." And then, in 
the East, it has become the victim of metaphorical 
usage. As a verb, it means to hold firm, to put a 
screw on; as a noun, it means a grip or screw, an 
advantage, fair or unfair. In the hand of the sport* 
ing reporter it can achieve wonders. "The bettor of 
whom the pool-room bookmaker stands in dread" — 
this flower of speech is culled from the New York 
World — "is the race-horse owner who has a cinch 
bottled up for a particular race, and drops into the 
room an hour or two before the race begins." The 
idea of bottling a cinch is enough to make a Mexican 
shudder, and the confused image helps to explain the 
difference between East and West. 

Thus the word wanders farther and farther from 
its origin, and when at last its meaning is wholly for- 




variably used in America when it has not 
the British meaning) than the English- 
man's "fancy." Pert" (or "peart") 
survives in dialect both here and in Eng- 
land : if it happened to be in general use 
bv us. not in the sense of "saucv" to which 
it has declined, but in its original sense 
of "brisk," "full of life," we should no 
doubt find a Briton here and there falling 
foul of it with jeers and execrations. 

These are rather petty matters. A fact 
upon which we might be excused (say by 
a Frenchman) for pluming ourselves, 
would be the apparent survival in Amer- 
ica of the spirit of the older tongue. The 
American is much more like his Eliza- 
bethan ancestor in temperament than the 
Englishman is. What is there in the ex- 
uberance, the exaggeration, the loud and 
ardent and tireless empiricism of our 
vernacular speech that is contrary to the 
spirit of Shakespeare or Raleigh ? Eliza- 
beth was not Empress of India, and the 
sun did not hesitate to set on her flag; 
but hers was the day in which England 
chiefly lived. Language glowed and 
flowed and brimmed over as life itself 
did. Shakespeare is full of wild verbal 
inventions, and hyperbole, and general 
flamboyancy. But the modern Londoner, 
trenched in his grey and tired old city, 

gotten or obscured, it becomes part of the common 
speech. One kind of slang may succeed to another, 
but cinch is secure forever of a place in the news- 
paper and in the spoken language of America. 
Caboodle, also, is firmly established. The long scries 
of words, such as cachunk or kerplunk, which sug- 
gest the impact of falling bodies with the earth, 
will live as expletives with say, sure, and the many 
other interjections which in converse fill up the 
pauses of thought and word. There are two other 
specimens of slang, beloved by the journals, for 
which it would be rash to prophesy a long life. To 
call a man or a thing or an act the limits is for the 
moment the highest step, save one, in praise or 
blame. When the limit is not eloquent enough to 
describe the hero who has climbed the topmost rung 
of glory, the language gasps into simplicity and de- 
clares that he is It "I didn't do a thing," says an 
eminent writer, "but push my face in there about 
eight o'clock last night, and I was It from the start" 
Though the pronoun is expressive enough, it does not 
carry with it the signs of immortality, and a changing 
fashion will doubtless sweep it away into the limbo of 
forgotten words. 

The journals do their best to keep alive the lan- 
guage of the people. The novelists do far more, 
since their works outlive by months or years the ex- 
travagances of the press. And the novelists, though 
they preserve a scrupulous respect for the literary lan- 
guage, take what license the dialect and character of 

holds up his hands in horror at our habit 
of extravagant speech. "He must be 
picturesque at all costs/* says Mr. \Yhib- 
lev of his theoretical American. "Some- 
times he reaches the goal of his ambition 
by a purposed extravagance." Fancy 
that! %, \Yhat can be more foolish ihan 
the description that follows of a man 
equal to the most difficult occasion: 'He 
can light his cigar when the battle is on 
with the friction of a passing cannon- 
ball/ " Why, we can only answer, you 
may find passages quite in this vein in a 
dozen Elizabethan comedies, in the very 
prose of any vivid age. It is the instinct 
of the heroic humour to make Ossa like a 
wart. There was once a man 'named 

In obedience to this same instinct of 
free expansion, the Americans, like the 
Elizabethans, have been ready in the 
coinage of new words from old metal. 
Apparently the censor regards us as pre- 
sumptuous to attempt anything of the 
kind. For instead of confronting us 
with some of the undeniably Rise coins 
we have struck off in our haste, he 
selects a half-dozen words of perfectly 
pure composition, all of which have their 
good use, and most (if not all) of which 
are in respectable use in England. These 

their personages permit them. It is from novels, 
indeed, that future generations will be able to con- 
struct the speech of to-day. With the utmost skill, 
the writers of romance mimic the style and accent of 
their contemporaries. They put into the mouths of 
those who in life know no other lingo the highly 
coloured slang of the street or the market. Here, for 
instance, is the talk of a saloon-keeper, taken from 
W. Payne's story The Money Coptum, which echoes 
as nearly as printed words can echo the voice of the 
boodler. "Stop it?" says the saloon-keener of a jour- 
nalist's attack. "What I got to stop it with? What's 
the matter with you fellows anyhow? You come 
chasm' yourselves down here scared out your wits 
because a dinky little one-cent newspaper's makin' 
faces at you. A man'd think you was a young 
lady's Bible class and 'd seen a mouse. ... Now 
that's right," he exclaims, as another asuailnnt ap- 
pears: "make it unanimous. Let all hands come 
and right the ship on old Simp. Tell him your 
troubles and ask him to help you out. He ain't got 
nothing better to do. Fitch into him; give him hrll; 
he likes it. Come one, come all — all you inoth-eaten, 
lousy stiffs from Stiffville. Come tell Simp there's a 
reporter rubberin' around and you're scared to death. 
He'll sympathise with you — you sweet-scented skates." 
It is not an elegant method of speech, but such as It 
is, it bears as close a resemblance to the dialect of 
Chicago as can be transferred from the rar to the 



chance victims are "locate," "operate," 
"antagonise," "transportation," "commu- 
tation," and "proposition." Such a list 
does not constitute precisely a beauty- 
show ; but one marvels at the choler with 
which our Briton cries, ''These words, if 
words they may be called, are hideous to 
the eye, offensive to the ear, and mean- 
ingless to the brain." "Locate" is an ill- 
favoured word, which is avoided by most 
Americans. It has its proper uses; 
Dickens used it in its worst possible sense 
some half-century ago. "Proposition" is 
of course a perfectly good word. It is a 
favourite with Matthew Arnold, wno also 
makes use of "operate" without com- 
punction. Both words are abused here 
in the language of the street-corner and 
the vulgar newspaper, as, in a single 
meaning each, "transportation" and "op- 
erate" are. "Antagonise" and "commu- 
tation" appear to be quite blameless. 
English has plenty of words with the 
-ise termination (for example, "senti- 
mentalise," which Mr. Whibley does not 
disdain to use) which are clumsy mon- 
grels. "Antagonise" is not one of 
them. As for our use of "commuta- 
tion": "Why," inquires the censor plain- 
tively, "should a poor holder of a season- 
ticket have the grim word 'commutation' 
hung about his neck?" As it happens, a 

If we compare the present with the past, wc cannot 
but acknowledge that American slang has grown mar- 
vellously in colour and variety. The jargon of 
Artemus Ward and Josh Billings possessed as little 
fire as character. These two humourists obtained their 
effect by the simple method, lately advocated by 
Messrs. Roosevelt and Carnegie, of spelling as they 
pleased. The modern professors of slang have in- 
vented a new style. Their pages sparkle with wit 
and illusion. They interpret their shrewd sense in 
words and phrases which have never before enjoyed 
the freedom of printer's ink. George Ade, the best 
of them all, has shown us how the wise ones of Chi- 
cago think and speak. His Fables in Slang is a little 
masterpiece of humour in substance and of wit in 
expression. To quote from it would be to destroy its 
effect. But it will discover the processes of slang as 
it is understood in the West more clearly than any 
argument, and having amused the present generation, 
it will remain an historical document of enduring value. 

Slang is the only language known to many thou- 
sands of citizens. The newly arrived immigrant de- 
lights to prove his familiarity with the land of his 
adoption by accepting its idioms and by speaking the 
tongue not of books but of the market-place. And 
yet this same slang, universally heard and under- 
stood, knocks in vain for admission into American 
literature. It expatiates freely in the journals. It 
finds a place in novels of dialect, and in works, like 

"commutation-ticket" is not a season- 
ticket, but a ticket issued by special agree- 
ment, entitling the holder to a specified 
number of journeys between two given 
points at a reduced fare : a plain matter 
of commutation in the ordinary legal 
sense. It would be hard to find a term 
more compact and accurate. 

An adverse criticism based upon dif- 
ferences in railroad (or railway) termi- 
nology would seem to be particularly idle. 
Hardly a term in the following passage 
(from Mr. A. C. Benson) is familiar to 
American ears: "My path takes me past 
the line, and I hear a train that I cannot 
see roar past. I hear the sharp crack of 
the fog-signals, and the whistle blown. I 
pass close to the huge dripping signals; 
there, in a hut beside a brazier, sits a 
plate-layer with his pole, watching the 
line, ready to push the little disc off the 
metals if the creaking signal overhead 
moves. In another lonely place stands a 
great luggage-train waiting. The little 
chimney of the van smokes, and I hear 
the voices of guards and shunters talk- 
ing cheerily together." Gentle American 
reader, does this unfamiliarity trouble 
you, or do you find it rather engaging? 
Does anything in the way of British 
usage seriously disturb your peace of 
mind? Is your individual eagle inclined 

George Ade's, which are designed for its exposition. 
But it has no part in the fabric of the gravely written 
language. Men of letters have disdained its use with 
a scrupulousness worthy our own eighteenth century. 
The best of them have written an English as pure as 
a devout respect for tradition can make it. Though 
they have travelled far in space and thought, they 
have anchored their craft securely in the past. No 
writer that has handled prose or verse with a high 
seriousness has offended against the practice of the 
masters — save only Walt Whitman, and he, though he 
has tempted men to parody, has left no school behind 
him. The written word and the spoken word are 
divided more widely in America than elsewhere. The 
spoken word threw off the trammels of an uneasy 
restraint at the very outset. The written word still 
obeys the law of gradual development, which has 
always controlled it If you contrast the English 
literature of to-day with the American, you will find 
differences of accent and expression, so slight that 
you may neglect them. You will find resemblances 
which prove that it is not in vain that our literatures 
have a common origin and have followed a common 
road. The arts, in truth, are more willingly obedient 
than life or politics to the established order; and 
America, free and democratic though she be, loyally 
acknowledges the sovereignty of humane letters. 
American is heard at the street-corner. It is still 
English that is written in the study. 


a even at the "different to" and 
"directly" of your neighbour? Are you 
not content to be sick in your sickroom as 
your English ancestor was. and to let the 
modern Londoner be ill in his sickroom 
if be likes, or can? 

To speak soberly, Mr. Whiblev's ar- 
ticle displays a testiness. a lack of infor- 
mation, and a carelessness of method. 
which he would hardly have permitted 
himself in the discussion of any other 
theme. Surely if the difference be- 
tween the English of England and the 
English of America is worth discussing 
at all, it is worth discussing good- 
humouredly and reasonably. A reason- 
able discussion would require a clear 
statement of the objects to be compared, 
an equally clear apprehension of the ele- 
ments involved in the comparison, and 
some sort of orderliness in the presenta- 
tion of the matter. 

London has its language of the street- 
corner as well as Xew York or Chicago ; 
let the jargons be compared. London 
has its 'Arry and 'Arriet journals; why 
not compare them with our own of the 
same class? If the comparison concern 
itself with what is recognised as respect- 
able usage throughout the Empire and in 
America (and such usage is easily recog- 

nised) there will he found in each branch 
of the tongue pep- *iar survivals and 
peculiar perversion? of certain words 
which belonged to the original stock of 
speech from which both branches sprang. 
And in each version will be found at 
work a continual process of invention 
and experiment, a steady production of 
new words which must stand the chances 
of competition. Technical terms, newly 
coiner! synonyms, fresh slang, will he 
always thrusting forward, and often 
I though in the nature of the case less 
often with slang 1 gaining foothold. Of 
these free contributions many are ac- 
cepted by the common language, the 
written language. Others remain in the 
vernacular of England or America, 
whether as spoken or as photographed by 
the vulgar journal. 

Such an examination of the subject 
would make it clear enough that while 
Australian. American, cockney, or their 
equivalents will always be heard upon 
the street -comer. English will not only 
continue to be written in the study, but, 
with its natural and wholesome varia- 
tions, will continue to In- s|mkcn by 
the paramount of our race the world 



When over the edge of night 
The stars pale one by one, 

And out of his streams of light 
Rises the great red sun, 

And lifting his splendours up 
Over the hush of the world, 

Drain eth night's ebon cup. 
Leaving some stars impearled — 

Still on its crystal rim, 

Fading in bubbles away, 
As out of their cloud-meadows dim 

The dawn-winds blow in this way : 

Then bathed in cool, dewy wells. 
Old longings of life renew. 

Till here in these morning dells 

The dreamings of earth come true. 

And up each sun-jewelled slope 
Over the night-hallowed land, 

Wonder and Beauty and Hope 
Walk silently hand in hand. 

William Wilfred Campbell. 


any body or organisation 
must, in a way, suggest 
a deserter or possibly a 
traitor to the cause, and 
it would seem un- 
fortunate that the band 
of camera-workers which forms the sub- 
ject of this sketch should not have 
adopted some other title for their or- 
ganisation that would, to some degree, 
express or suggest their laudable am- 
bitions and efforts in their chosen field. 
Though they are secessionists in fact, 
the term is inadequate and even a mis- 
nomer, since they have seceded only be- 
cause their camera-beliefs — if the term 
may be allowed — are broader and more 
advanced ; or shall it simply be said be- 
cause they differ from those of a great 
majority of their brothers of the lens? 

Briefly speaking, they represent a com- 
pany of individuals whose efforts are 
directed toward the development of 
camera work as a medium for artistic in- 
dividual expression- They would dis- 
regard the term "photography" as an 
indefinite term and as lacking in real 
significance as the word "painting." 
They do not assert that the camera as a 
medium is superior to any other that is 
used in art expression, nor do they offer 
it as a substitute for other and older 
mediums, but they believe, and with good 
reason, that the camera possesses great 
power for individual expression, and that 
it must take its place among the impor- 
tant mediums. 

This idea is not of recent origin, nor 
is its pursuit the fad of a few artistic 
dreamers, but, on the contrary, it repre- 
sents a sane and steady evolution in 


B>- George H. Seelcy, United Stat 




the artistic use of the camera which has 
been developing for more than a decade. 

Among the earliest enthusiasts in this 
field was Robert Demachy, a Frenchman, 
who to-day stands at the head of his pro- 
fession in his own country. He it was 
who made possible the .advance in this 
branch of work by developing the gum 
process of photographic printing. As a 
writer has aptly expressed it, "his ex- 
periments and results have blazed out 
that photographic trail along which so 
many have followed. At first, like 
Indians, single file ; to-day, in broad and 
ever -extending ranks." 

It is as interesting as it is surprising 

to note that among those that have made 
the most marked advance in the work 
the Americans greatly outnumber the 

As to the work itself, no description 
can be so eloquent, nor words express the 
marvel of its artistic quality, as these 
reproductions themselves, and while they 
are thoroughly representative, it would 
be necessary to give a much larger and 
more varied showing in order adequately 
to impress the uninitiated with the 
almost unbelievable accomplishments of 
the workers in this important and ever- 
enlarging field of art expression, 

Laurence Burnham, 




BERY slowly Carey 
■ walked down the room 
B to where a group of 
1 twelve or fourteen 
lelderly women, arrayed 
Sin dark silk dresses and 
flwearing lace caps, were 
gathered about their hostess, closely ob- 
servant of the scene being enacted be- 
fore them. Every guest in the ballroom, 
with his or her genealogical tree, was 
accurately known to each of these spec- 
tators, and a running fire of comment 
and criticism kept pace with their various 
actions. A little tremor of interest and 
curiosity passed over the group when 
Carey's approach was signalled, and 
glances of speculation were rapidly ex- 
changed, heads brought closer together 
and voices discreetly lowered. 

With a man's innate sensitiveness to 
observation, he made haste to single out 
his hostess and shelter behind her greet- 
ing. Not that he had any affection for 
Mrs. Michael Burke ; on the contrary, 
it was a never-failing source of wonder 
to him how kindly, commonplace 

•Copyright, 1507-1908, by 

Michael could ever have chosen such a 
mate, for Mrs. Burke was what, in her 
particular set, is known as "very grand," 
which, literally translated, conveys the 
impression of a vast and unlovable su- 
periority of manner, coupled with defi- 
nite social ambitions. In his feeling of 
vague dislike, Carey shared a common 
opinion, for not even Burke's own rela- 
tions had ever, in the twenty odd years 
of his married life, arrived at the point 
of feeling at home with Mrs. Michael 
Burke. Her invitations to Fair Hill 
were never refused, for such invitations 
implied a certain social distinction ; but 
the uncultured band of relatives never 
outgrew the nervous sense of the host- 
ess' critical eye; and a sigh of relief 
invariably escaped them when the large 
iron gates, aggressive in their prosper- 
ous coating of white paint, clanged be- 
hind them and they were free to breathe 
their own less rarefied air. 

This same consciousness of cold criti- 
cism fell now upon Carey as he clasped 
her long thin hand, encased in a well-fit- 
ting black kid glove, for her actions and 
bearing could convey to a nicety the pre- 
cise esteem in which a guest was held. As 



the daughter of a bank manager, she was 
obliged in the present instance to look 
askance at Carey's antecedents, though 
as the wife of a successful trader, she 
granted him the meed of praise due to 
his self-earned position. In his case cir- 
cumstances balanced each other. He 
had been unfortunately brought up, but 
he had married well. Her fingers closed 
round his with a certain degree of cor- 
diality, and her thin face relaxed into a 


"Good-evening, Mr. Carey! I have 
just been talking to Daisy; she danced 
the first dance with my cousin, Surgeon- 
Major Cusacke. He's stationed at the 
Curragh, you know. Such a nice 
fellow! I must introduce you to 
each other." She spoke in a high, 
clipped voice, from which the brogue 
had been carefully eliminated — a voice 
that, in its studied precision, had some- 
thing in common with his wife's. 

The similarity struck Carey, flashing 
across his mind with a slight, sharp con- 
tempt. Usually, he was not a little 
proud of Daisy's social advantages, but 
this reflection of them in a woman who 
was antagonistic to him jarred upon his 
senses, still tingling from contact with 
elemental things. Dropping Mrs. 
Burke's hand, he answered quickly and 
indifferently, "Oh, Cusacke! I met him 
at the Tramore races last year." 

Mrs. Burke was sensible of the little 
slight, but she prided herself on being a 
hostess and a woman of the world ; and, 
whatever her silent criticism of his man- 
ners, she gave no outward expression of 


"And what about yourself, Mr. 
Carey? Are you going to play cards? 
Or can we persuade you to dance? 
There are plenty of pretty girls here — 
but the men are alwavs wanted." 

Carey laughed. "Old married men 
like me?" 

She smiled the chilly smile that was 
thought the essence of good taste. "Oh, 

Cu mustn't be running yourself down! 
t me find a partner for you. But, of 
course, you know everybody here!" 

"Indeed I don't! It makes me feel 
quite old, seeing all these children that 
were in the nursery in my dancing 

"What nonsense! There's nobody 
here you don't know — unless, perhaps, 
Dan Costello's daughter. You remem- 
ber the Costellos? Dan was with my 
father in the bank in Enniscorthy before 
he was moved here." 

"Oh, yes, I remember him. A dark, 
excitable little man." 

"Yes. The greatest fool that ever 
lived. If you made a king of Dan Cos- 
tello, he'd be begging in the streets the 
week after! He hadn't a grain of 

"Who was it he married?" 

"Don't vou remember? He ran awav 
with a Miss Dysart. of Derrvvane. 
'Twas the talk of the County Wexford 
for a year after. Her father cut her off 
without a penny ; and, they say, she used 
to have to turn Dan's old coats for her- 
self when he was done with them! But 
all the Wexford oeonle are aueer!" 

Carey laughed. "And what about the 
girl ?" 

"Oh, Isabel! Isabel is pretty. Per- 
haps you saw her, though. She was 
dancing the first dance." 

"I saw her, yes!" He was careful to 
answer indifferently. 

"And what did you think of her? 
She's curious looking, isn't she?" 

He made no reply. 

"Your wife and your sister-in-law ad- 
mire her greatly. I must introduce you 
to her. I wonder where she's gone to?" 

"She's half way down the room, 
standing near the door." Carey still 
kept his voice studiedly unconcerned, 
for he dreaded Mrs. Michael Burke as 
we dread all powerful influences, the 
workings of which we do not under- 

"Oh, is she? We'll go and find her, 
then." She excused herself to the near- 
est of the matrons, and sailed down the 
room, with Carey following in her wake. 

As they drew near to Isabel Costello, 
she was standing by the wall, the centre 
of a group of men, her head thrown 
slightly backward, so that the light 
from the chandeliers fell full upon 
her rounded chin, her parted lips and 
white, flawless teeth. More than ever 
she suggested the young animal stretch- 
ing itself to the warmth and comfort of 
the sun — to the caresses of life, and this 



subtle, indescribable impression came 
home to Carey interwoven with her phy- 
sical being — lying like a shadow in the 
blackness of her hair, dancing like a 
will-o'-the-wisp in her hazel eyes. 

At the moment that they paused be- 
side her, she was holding up her pro- 
gramme, the pencil poised in her hand, 
her dancing eyes roving from one man's 
face to another, in transparent joy at the 
exercise of power. "Well, I can't give it 
to you all!" she was saying in a clear 
voice unmarred by any foreign accent. 
"I can't give it to you all — unless I divide 
myself up into little bits! And, even 
then, only the person who got my feet 
would have a good dance !" She laughed, 
once more displaying her strong, white 

"Isabel! Here's somebody I want to 
introduce to you !" 

She turned at once at Mrs. Burke's 
voice, the -laughter still on her lips. 

"Mr. Carey! Miss Costello! And 
don't dance too much, Isabel! Your 
aunt will be blaming me if you look 
washed out to-morrow." 

A flash of amusement shot irresistibly 
from the girl's radiant eyes to Carey's, 
and involuntarily he responded to it as 
he acknowledged the introduction; but 
the opening bars of the next waltz came 
swinging down the room as he bent his 
head, and before he could speak, the lit- 
tle group of men became clamorous 

"Well, Miss Costello, and who is to 
have the dance?" 

T asked first, you know!" 
'Indeed you didn't, Jack! Twas I! 
Wasn't it, Miss Costello?" 

"Well, I asked last. And the last shall 
be first, you know!" Owen Power 
pushed his way to the front with a con- 
fident smile. 

Again Isabel looked from one face to 
the other. "I tell you what I'll do !" she 
said suddenly. "I'll give the dance to 
Mr. Carey — and then none of you can 
be jealous!" Like a flash she wheeled 
round upon Stephen. 

The demand in her glance was so 
strong, the whole onslaught so sudden, 
that no thought of resistance suggested 
itself to him. Without a word, he 
stepped forward and put his arm round 



her waist, swinging her out into the cir- 
cle of dancers that was rapidly filling 
the room. 

It was five years or more since he had 
danced, but few Irishmen are awkward 
in an art that comes to them more or less 
naturally. He guided her carefully 
down the room, testing his powers, ex- 
ercising his memory, anxious not to do 
himself discredit; then, as he gained 
the farther end and passed the group of 
matrons, the spirit of the moment sud- 
denly entered into him as the music 
quickened and he felt the strong, supple 
body about which his arm was clasped 
brace itself in response. A thrill passed 
through him, dispersing a long apathy; 
his position and his responsibilities were 
momentarily submerged in the sense of 
sound and motion; his arm instinctively 
tightened, drawing the girl closer, and 
with one impulse they spun out into the 
centre of the room. 

For several minutes they danced in 
silence ; then at last they paused by the 
door where they had first met. They 
looked at each other, and she gave a 
breathless little laugh. 

"How well you dance!" 

"I don't! Twas you made me." 

She coloured with pleasure. "Do I 
dance well, then?" 

"Well? You dance wonderfully." 

"I learned at the Convent in Paris 
from a French teacher. We weren't 
supposed to learn waltzes, but she taught 
me. There's nothing so heavenly as 
dancing, is there?" 

Carey looked at her, engrossed in 
some thought of his own. 

Her face changed and darkened. "But 
perhaps you didn't enjoy it?" she added, 
swift as lightning in her change of tone. 

"Didn't I?" His eyes were still upon 

The blood rose quickly to her face, 
chasing away the shadows. "Then per- 
haps it's only that you're trying to be 
nice to me, because it's my first dance?" 

The tone of the voice, the utterance of 
the words, were charged with uncon- 
scious coquetry. The sense of exhilaration 
swept over Carey afresh, as though her 
light fingers had lifted the dry record of 
his days, and her light breath had blown 
the dust from the pages. 

8 4 


"Could I be nice— even if I tried?" 
His tongue, unused to the tossing of 
words, brought out the question awk- 
wardly — stupidly, it seemed to him ; and 
he looked to see her lip curl. 

But so fine is the net by which Fate 
snares, she liked the embarrassment in 
his voice ; she liked his evident unfitness 
for the game of give and take. It was 
exciting to put it to the test — to step 
forward, sounding his interest — to re- 
treat, daunted by the mystery that 
shrouds the unknown personality. Her 
feminine intuition recognised the essen- 
tial — the man — in Carey, and her femi- 
nine instinct rose to meet it. Premature 
instinct, perhaps, in a girl of twenty! 
But mentally, as well as physically, the 
admixture of southern blood was 
marked by early development. As her 
body was built upon gracious lines, so 
her mind had already flowered, where 
others lay folded in the bud. 

"You are nice — even without trying." 
She felt her pulses throb at her own 
daring, and the sensation was delight. 

Carey took a step forward. "You'll 
have to justify that!" he said quickly. 
"You'll have to give me another dance." 

Without a word she handed him her 
programme; and as they bent over the 
little card, their heads close together, 
their shoulders all but touching, she was 
conscious that her heart was beating 
faster than it had beaten all the evening, 
exciting though the evening had been. 

"Which would you like?" 

"This!" He drew a line through a 
dance in the middle of the programme. 
"And now, where will we go to?" 

As he handed her back the card some 
crashing chords came sweeping down the 
room, indicating the end of the second 
waltz, and in response, half a dozen 
couples stopped at the door and hurried 
out into the hall. The first to halt were 
his sister-in-law, Mary, and young 
Power, and as they passed Mary's keen 
eyes swept over his face and Isabel's. 

"Daisy waited ten minutes for you!" 
she remarked as she went by. 

Isabel looked after her in surprise. 
"Mary Norris didn't seem to know me !" 

"Oh, you'll get used to that! It's a 
habit of Mary's to kiss people one day 
and cut them the next !" 

Isabel's surprise was turned upon him. 
His tone, his expression, his bearing had 
all changed as if by magic. He had 
drawn back into a shell of reserve, as 
though in the moment of expansion some 
antagonistic influence had blown across 
his mind. 

"Let us get out of this crowd," he 
added in the same curt voice. 

In the hall and on the stairs some 
chattering girls and their attendant 
youths had already found seats, but the 
hall door was open, offering a tempting 
view of dark trees and deserted path- 
ways. Carey paused and looked toward 

"I suppose you'd be afraid to go out?" 

Isabel's momentary depression flared 
to excitement. 

"Afraid? What would I be afraid 

"Oh, I don't know. Wet feet, I sup- 
pose. All girls' shoes are paper." 

She withdrew her fingers from his 
arm and, with her head held high, led 
the way across the hall smd out on to the 
gravelled pathway. 

A little titter of laughter came from 
the stairs ; she heard it and stopped. 

'Were those people laughing at me?" 
No. Why?" 

"No reason. Only I could kill any 
one who laughed at me!" 

Carey looked at her through the dark- 
ness — her graceful figure bent slightly 
toward him, her muslin skirt held high 
above her white satin slippers. "Do you 
always have such fiery 'sentiments ?" he 
was drawn to ask. 

"Oh, I feel things, yes!" 

"Then I'm afraid you're going to dis- 
like me, Miss Costello!" 

There was no mistaking that his rea- 
son and his will forced him to snatch 
this opportunity, while his inclination 
stretched out detaining hands ; and when 
such a conflict is waged in a man's mind, 
his expression is apt to be unnecessarily 
cold, his tone unnecessarily harsh. 

At his words Isabel's head went up 
with the action of a young deer scenting 
danger. "Hate you? Why?" 

"Let us walk on and I'll try to tell 

In silence they turned and passed 
down the avenue, she brimming with un- 





easy curiosity, he girding himself to the 

"Do you mind if I smoke?" 

"No, I don't." 

He took out a cigarette and lighted it 
with the care of a man whose thoughts 
are upon other matters; then he threw 
the lighted match away between the 
trees, where it flared for a moment in the 
damp undergrowth and went out with a 
little splutter. 

"Miss Costello, I had a letter the other 
day from my brother Frank." 

She stopped. "From Frank?" 

"Yes. He wrote — and told me." 

"Told you — ?" Her voice faltered. 

"Yes. Told me that you and he are 

"Oh," she cried naively, "and he 
never said a word to me about having 
written! I suppose he was afraid you'd 
be angry. Were you angry ?" Her voice 
changed and dropped. 

Carey tightened the buckles of his ar- 
mour. "I was!" he said. "Very an- 

"And why?" Challenge and defiance 
leaped at him suddenly. He could feel 
her nerves quiver to her thought. 

"Why? Oh, because a sensible man 
can't help being angry when he sees an 
act of folly ; and this is folly, you know 
—utter folly." 

Isabel's muslin dress slipped from her 
fingers and trailed upon the ground. 

"Oh, because Frank has no money, no 
influence — nothing in the world that 
could justify his marrying." 

She looked down. "I suppose it 
wouldn't be so bad if the girl he wanted 
to marry had money?" she asked in a 
very low voice. 

Manlike, he walked headlong into the 
trap. "It certainly would make things 
more practicable." 

In a flash she was round upon him 
again, pride and anger aflame, her sense 
01 wounded dignity blazing in her eyes. 
"Oh, I see! I see! I'm not good 
enough for your brother!" 

Involuntarily he put out his hand. "I 
never said that !" 

She gave a sharp little laugh. "Didn't 
you? It sounded very like it. I'm not 
good enough — not rich enough for him ! 

He must wait till he can make a better 
match!" With a little gasp of self-pity, 
her voice broke. 

"But, my dear child " 

"I'm not a child! I'm twenty — and 
old enough to manage my own affairs. 
And I can tell you one thing! — I can tell 
you one thing, and that is that I'd rather 
die now than break off my engagement! 
I'd rather die than break it off — even if I 
didn't care a pin for Frank!" 

Carey looked at her passionate face, in 
which the eyes gleamed black and 
bright; and again he was stirred, as 
though a current of electricity had 
coursed along the rut of his common- 
olace life. 

"Very well!" he said. "Then I sup- 
pose we declare war? I have a will of 
my own, too, you know!" 

She met his eyes, half curious, half 
amused. "Yes," she said with defiant 
seriousness, "we do. We declare war !" 

He bent his head in acceptance of the 
defiance; and without another word 
turned on his heel and began to walk 
slowly back toward the house, leaving 
her to follow as she pleased. 

There was no chivalry in the action; 
it was a case of the elemental man fol- 
lowing his instinct. But all human 
drama is built upon the primitive, and 
the fewer the stage accessories, the 
sooner the arrival of the psychological 


The noonday sun was streaming into 
Isabel Costello's bedroom when she 
woke to the world on the day following 
the dance. Under ordinary conditions 
one can comfortably lie abed in Water- 
ford until ten o'clock, and when a 
crushed muslin dress, a broken fan and 
satin slippers with soles worn shiny from 
dancing testify to a night of wild 
activity, there is no limit to the thraldom 
of sleep. 

She woke slowly, drawing in with 
each half-conscious breath the confused, 
agreeable sense of something vaguely ex- 
hilarating in the immediate past. Her 
first action was to raise her arms above 
her head and lazily stretch herself; her 



next, to sit up, shake back the great 
plait of black hair that had fallen over 
her shoulder and look round the little 
room that still held the unfamiliarity of 
new surroundings. The curtains of the 
one window had been pulled back, and 
the spring breeze blew in, carrying with 
it the scent of wallflowers from the 
small front garden. There is magic in 
the scent of wallflowers — such magic 
as lies in spices and cedarwood — to call 
up pictures from the treasure-house of 
imagination; and Isabel closed her eyes 
to the ugly Victorian furniture that ham- 
pered the little room — to the grey wall- 
paper that even the sun could not fade 
into brightness, and in a moment she 
was skimming down the ballroom at 
Fair Hill, tingling again with the joy of 
movement and the intoxication of suc- 
cess. For this was her inheritance, her 
birthright — this power to vibrate like a 
fine instrument to every passing touch; 
it was patent in the flash of her smile, 
in the sudden frown, in the threat and 
the caress that ousted each other con- 
tinuously in the depths of her eyes. She 
was Irish, but Irish with the blood of 
Spain reliving in her veins from a for- 
gotten generation. And of such a com- 
pound, what results? Throw oil upon 
water and you induce pasivity; cast it 
upon fire, and the flames laugh back into 
your face! She was a Celt in imagina- 
tiveness, in fatalism, in pride ; but in her 
recklessness, in her vitality there was the 
beat of warmer blood — the call of 
a race fiercer, more tempestuous than 
nature ever placed upon northern 

Still drinking in the soft, moist air 
filled with the subtle scent, she dropped 
back again upon the pillows, lost in 
retrospect; then slowly and reluctantly 
her eyelids lifted, as her quick ear caught 
a step on the corridor outside. 

A moment later the handle of her 
door was turned and her aunt, Miss Cos- 
tello, walked into the room, carrying a 
tray with some thick pieces of bread and 
butter, a brown glazed teapot, a milk 
jug, and a cup and saucer. She was a 
thin, dried-up little woman of fifty-five 
with a brown and prematurely wrinkled 
skin, sharp black eyes and wispy black 
hair. In her case, the alien blood had 

run to asceticism and a nervous, unprac- 
tical activity that had worn her out be- 
fore middle age. She came up to her 
niece's bed now with a haste that sug- 
gested a multitude of affairs claiming 
her attention, and set down the tray so 
quickly that everything rattled. 

"Well, Isabel! Good-morrow! What 
hour was it at all when you got in?" 

Isabel put up her mouth very gra- 
ciously for her aunt's kiss. When her 
nature was submerged in pleasant or 
exciting recollection, she overflowed 
with affection toward the world at 

" 'Twas five o'clock, Aunt Teresa." 

"Five! What on earth were you do- 
ing till five? It must have been broad 
day !" 

" 'Twas, nearly !" Isabel laughed at 
the remembered pleasure. 

"Did you enjoy yourself?" 

"Enjoy myself ! I never in all my life 
enjoyed myself so much." 

"And did you keep the car the whole 
time? I wonder what sort of a bill 
Loughlan will make out!" 

"The car? Oh, the car was there at 
two, but thev wouldn't hear of my going 
away. I came back with the Powers." 

Miss Costello looked impressed; and, 
drawing herself up, smoothed the frill 
of the black alpaca apron she always 

"Oh, indeed ! The Powers ! That was 
very nice for you." 

" 'Twas, in a way." 

"Indeed it was! The Powers are 
very well off, and Mrs. Power is very 
good position. She was a daughter of 
Mr. Knox-Nash, of Gallybanagher." 

"So she told me while we were driv- 
ing back! But, Aunt Teresa " 


"Do you know who I met last night?" 

"No. Who?" 

"Frank's brother !" 

"What! Stephen Carey! You don't 
say so! Why, I thought he never went 
to parties." 

Isabel's thick black eyelashes drooped 
over her eyes. "Why shouldn't he go to 
parties ?" 

"Oh. because he's married and settled 

"But he's not old." 



"He's thirty-eight. Did he dance last 

"Of course he did ! Why wouldn't he 
dance when he's able to?" Her eyes 
flashed up to her aunt's face. 

"Oh, I don't know ! Only a man with 
a wife' and three children has generally 
something better to do than to be losing 
his night's sleep. Oh, but I forgot! 
There's a letter for you from Paris." 
She began to search hastily in her apron 
pocket. "Ah, here 'tis! I knew I put 
it in !" 

Isabel took the thin foreign envelope, 
and laid it unopened on the tray. 

Miss Costello's bright eyes caught the 
movement. "Why won't you read it?" 
she asked. 

"There's time enough!" 

"Oh, is that the way? In my young 
days a girl didn't take a man's letters as 
coolly as that. But perhaps I ought to 

Isabel flashed round upon her angrily. 
"As if I ever thought of such a thing! 
I know what's in the letter, that's all. 
And when you know what's in a letter, 
you're not very excited to open it — at 
least I'm not !" 

Her aunt's face looked disturbed. 
"Isabel, you don't tell me you're getting 
tired of him ?" 

"I didn't tell you so." 

"Well, I only hope your head wasn't 
turned last night!" 

"What on earth would turn my 
head ?" 

At her niece's darkening brow Miss 
Costello was thrown into nervous con- 
fusion. "My dear child, nothing! Only 
I suppose you danced with all the young 
men — with — with Owen Power and the 
rest of them." 

Isabel laughed, her good humour re- 
stored by the absurdity of her aunt's 
idea. "Oh, no, Aunt Teresa! Mr. 
Power didn't turn my head. I don't 
like beauty men. And, look ! To please 
you, I'll open Frank's letter !" With an 
incredibly swift turn of the fingers, she 
tore the letter open and, before Miss 
Costello could remonstrate, began to 
read it aloud. 

"Listen, Aunt Teresa! 'Dearest Isa- 
bel — thanks for vour nice letter. I am 
still very lonesome, as you can under- 

stand, and I think of you every minute 
and wish all our walks and talks could 
come over again. You are in my mind 
always. Do you often think of me? 

" *I have written to my brother Ste- 
phen, telling him about you, but I'm 
afraid he is not very well satisfied, as I 
have not heard from him yet. Let me 
know if you meet anv of the family. It 
worries me a bit not to know what they 
think; but Stephen is a queer chap, au 
for getting on in life, and not giving way 
to sentiment ' " 

Isabel stopped suddenly in her read* 

"Is that all? I hope there'll be no un- 
pleasantness with the Careys." 

"Oh, that's all! It goes on for ages 
in the same sort of wav. Aunt Teresa?" 


"What has Daisy Norris grown up 

"Daisy Norris! Oh. she's pretty — 
and, of course, she's rich." 

"Rich !" Isabel tossed her head. "As 
if that mattered !" 

"It mattered a good deal to Stephen 


"Oh, because he had a hard enough 
life of it in the beginning! Many a time 
his brothers would have been in the 
workhouse only for the way he slaved. 
Your poor father knew it through the 

"And he married Daisy Norris for 
her money?" 

Miss Costello looked shocked. No 
Irishwoman likes her insinuations put 
into blunt speech. "I wouldn't say that 
to anybody, Isabel, if I were you! 
There's no doubt, of course, that Daisy's 
money wasn't in his way; but, all the 
same, 'tis an ugly thing to be saying 
about any man, that he married for 

"Well, was he in love with her?" 

"Oh. how do I know? I suppose he 
was. 'Tis hard to say those things." 

"And was she satisfied?" 

"How satisfied?" 

"Satisfied with that sort of a bargain? 
I know I wouldn't be." 

Miss Costello looked at her niece with 
that half -pathetic perplexity that the old 
so often bring to bear upon their study 



of the young. In the long tale of years 
that had made up her own life, she could 
find no key to the nature that looked at 
her from Isabel's restless eyes. 

"I can't make you out, Isabel!" she 
said at length. 

Isabel turned on her side and the plait 
of black hair fell again over her shoul- 
der. "What I mean, Aunt Teresa, is 
that if I was rich and was going to marry 
a man like Mr. Carey, I'd take very good 
care that he didn't marry me for my 
money alone." 

Miss Costello smiled uncertainly. 
" Would you indeed? And how would 
you manage it?" 

"Oh, I can't tell how, but I would!" 
Her eyes turned to the window, and 
then flashed back again. "What a fool 
she must have been!" she added sud- 
denly; then, seeing her aunt's shocked 
face, she put up her hand in a pretty 
gesture of deprecation. 

"Auntie! Auntie! Don't look so 
shocked! It's only that I like fighting 
for things, and I can't imagine other 
people not liking it, too." 

A look akin to horror tightened Miss 
Costello's thin lips. "Don't, Isabel, 
dear! Tisn't right to be saying things 
like that. Girls in Waterford don't talk 
like that." 

Well, it wouldn't be thought nice. 
You'd get the name of being odd." 

"But why?" 

The repetition stnng Miss Costello to 
annoyance. "Ah, don't be silly, child! 
You know very well that a girl must do 
what other people do — 'specially if she 
has no money. Saying queer things is 
nearly as bad as doing them." If you 
want to make nice friends, and be taken 
up by people richer and in better society 
than vourself, you'll have to be particu- 
lar." ' 

"I don't care whether people take me 
up or not. I'm poor, I know; but I'm 
not a beggar to be patronised." 

"Ah, there you are again! Running 
away with every word I say! I never 
said you were a beggar. I don't know 
where you get such ugly words." 

"Well, they're true words, aren't 

Maybe! But it won't always be 




enough for you that things are true. I 
tell you people here have a certain notion 
of what other people ought to be, and if 
you differ from that they just leave you 
where you are." 

Isabel considered this statement. This, 
then, was what she had returned to from 
the long probation of school life, first in 
Dublin and later in Paris ! This weigh- 
ing of words! This bondage in a free 
world! Her restless spirit rose up, 
swiftly antagonistic and rebellious. 

"Aunt Teresa, I'll never do it!" she 
exclaimed. "I'll never — never do it! I 
can't cut out my life on a sort of pattern. 
It must be what I want it to be, or noth- 
ing at all. Oh, I wish I had died last 
night ! The world is horrid the day after 
things!" She put her hands over her 
face in an impulse of despair as sudden 
and real as her excitement had been. 

Miss Costello looked frightened and 
flurried. Life had presented a new and 
unwelcome problem in this grown-up 
niece, and she shrank constitutionally 
from responsibility. 

"Isabel, dear! Isabel, dear, don't! 
she said helplessly. "That's not the way 
to be looking at things at all. Say a 
prayer to Saint Philomena to help you to 
be sensible! Be a good child, now, and 
say a little prayer !" 

Isabel dropped her hands, showing a 
flushed and defiant face. "I'm not a 
child, Aunt Teresa! And I've given up 
Saint Philomena; she never does any- 
thing for me now." She almost trembled 
at her own temerity, as she made the 
statement, for veneration of the saints 
and firm belief in their friendly interces- 
sion is the very breath of life in such 
places as convent schools ; and, moreover, 
she knew that she was treading sacri- 
legiously upon Miss Costello's most 
sacred ground. But rebellion was alive 
within her. "I don't think it's much 
good praying against things like that," 
she added. "How could the saints have 
time to bother whether I'm sensible or 

"Isabel, I'm shocked at you! If your 
poor father could only hear you ! A man 
that said his rosary every night of his 
life !" 

The demon of insubordination stirred 
in Isabel, prompting retaliation. "If he 



hadn't said so many prayers," she said 
irreverently, "perhaps he might have got 
promotion in the bank — and left me bet- 
ter off." 

For one moment Miss Costello looked 
down on her in speechless anger; then, 
by an agitated exercise of the control her 
religion taught her, she turned and 
walked out of the room. 

As the door closed, Isabel's bravado 
evaporated. "Aunt Teresa!" she called 
suddenly. "Aunt Teresa, come back! 
I'm sorry!" 

But in keeping her indignation within 
bounds, Miss Costello felt she had done 
enough. At the sound of her name in 
Isabel's quick, emotional voice, she 
paused on the corridor, murmured a 
prayer for her niece's spiritual guidance, 
and silently passed down the narrow 


Last mass, celebrated at twelve o'clock, 
is the important even* of Sunday in 
an Irish Catholic town. Almost med- 
iaeval in its pomp and pride, it presents 
a curious contrast to the drab-hued life 
outside the church; for within the pre- 
cincts there is colour for a dozen pictures, 
were there artists to paint them. Splen- 
did vestments, cloth-of-gold, wax lights 
and the glory of flowers are blent to- 
gether in an atmosphere clouded with 
incense, while over the heads of the con- 
gregation, making the impression aud- 
ible, the organ whispers or thunders the 
majesty of the Eternal. 

It was Isabel Costello's fourth Sunday 
in Waterford, and in the bench nearest 
the altar she sat beside Miss Costello, 
who might have posed for the spirit of 
religious fervour as she knelt, rigid in 
her plain black dress, armed with long 
brown rosary beads and a ponderous 

It would mislead from the outset to 
say that Isabel was religious, yet it would 
be overstating the case to say that she 
was devoid of the religious sense. Every 
tenet of the Roman Catholic Church she 
accepted with unquestioning belief, be- 
cause to her imagination those tenets 
were fixed as the stars in heaven ; but in 

her composition there was nothing of the 
ascetic. Pray she could — and frequently 
did — with a passionate fervour of sup- 
plication, but she preferred the priedieu 
of an oratory to the bare floor of her 
own room, and her moments of devotion 
were usually inspired from without 
rather than from within. 

She sat now in the clouded atmosphere 
and her thoughts, freed by the music of 
the organ, flowed out upon the stream of 
her fancy. Her prayer-book lay open 
before her, but her eyes were not follow- 
ing the prayers ; she sat as she had sat a 
hundred times in the convent chapel, 
weaving the dream that all youth weaves, 
but with this difference, that in the con- 
vent chapel the dreams had been tinged 
with the pearl and gold of dawning 
things and now the light of a waking 
world was touching them to rose and 
purple. There was life to be lived nowl 
She no longer stood expectant in a realm 
of ideals! Vaguely moved by these 
imaginings, she stood up and knelt down, 
mechanically noting the chanting of the 
priests, the silences of the choir and the 
fresh bursts of music from the organ, 
while her mind travelled back over the 
ground she had covered from this mass 
in the Waterford cathedral to the day in 
Paris when love had confronted her in 
the guise of the first man she had known. 
For it was love — the image, the abstrac- 
tion — that had broken down her defences 
on the evening that she had stood by the 
window of the hotel salon with Frank 
Carey, and looked down into the narrow 
street, where the asphalt shone like ice in 
the white light of the electric lamps, and 
the stumbling of the cab-horses and the 
cracking oT whips rose, mingling with 
excited street cries. There had been a 
sense of fate in the air that evening. She 
remembered looking across at the oppo- 
site houses and thinking how like they 
were to painted houses upon the stage 
with their flat fronts and shuttered win- 
dows ; then that first recollection was rent 
bv the newer, stronger memory of 
Frank's arm thrust suddenly about her 
waist and Frank's unexpected kiss upon 
her cheek. Rough, untempered love- 
making it had been to the mind of the 
exoerienced, but to the girl released a 
week before from a convent school it had 



seemed the knowledge of life ; and Frank 
Carey, the freckled, sandy-haired boy, 
had taken on the glamour of romance in 
that moment of daring. 

Reflected in the mirror of her thoughts, 
he had appeared before her, the knight 
storming the castle of his lady love. And 
now ? The organ spoke low, dropping to 
the note of question, and her cheeks red- 
dened as though human lips had pro- 
pounded a riddle. Now ? She looked at 
the figures of the three priests officiating 
at the mass that was drawing to its close, 
and suddenly the vision of the avenue at 
Fair Hill rose up before her mind — the 
avenue with the chestnut buds silhouetted 
against the night sky and the first stars 
dappling the darkness. 

The blessing was given, and the con- 
gregation stood up for the last gospel. 
Isabel rose with the rest and knelt again 
for the final prayers; then at last, the 
service ended, the three priests disap- 

S eared into the mysterious regions be- 
ind the altar, the organist struck the 
first chord of the solemn march and the 
stream of people began to pour into the 

It was some time before Miss Costello 
had finished her private devotions, and 
the church was fast emptying when she 
and Isabel rose to depart. They were 
almost the last to emerge from the church 
and step out upon the flagged space 
guarded by railings that shuts the cathe- 
dral from the street and makes a tempt- 
ing loitering place for those whose duty 
lies behind them. Isabel's first impres- 
sion as she came out into the light was of 
a crowd broken up into little knots of two 
and three and of a number of voices ex- 
changing conflicting greetings: and her 
next, the consciousness of Miss Cos- 
tello pulling at her sleeve with nervous 

"Isabel ! Isabel ! Don't you see Mrs. 
Power saluting you ?" 

Isabel turned sharplv. "No, I don't, 
Aunt Teresa ! Where ?" 

"Over there by the steps. Look now ! 
She's smiling at you." 

Isabel turned, half reluctantly in the 
direction indicated, and then the blood 
rose hotly to her face, for Mrs. Power 
was the centre of a partv formed by Mary 
Norris and Daisy and Stephen Carey. 

"Go on, Isabel!" urged Miss Costello. 
"She wants to speak to you. You ought 
to thank her for driving you home that 
night ; 'twould be only polite." 

Isabel didn't seem to hear her aunt's 
persuasion, and it is doubtful whether 
the pleadings would have met with any 
response but that at the moment of their 
utterance Mrs. Power made a forward 
movement, and settled the question her- 

"Ah, my dear child, how are you? I 
haven't seen you since the dance!" she 
said, pushing a way through the inter- 
vening people, and extending a friendly 
hand. "What have you been doing these 
weeks past ? And here's your aunt, too ! 
How are you, Miss Costello ? You ought 
to have been at Fair Hill that night ; you 
really ought. There were no two opin- 
ions about it, your niece was the belle. 
She could have filled her programme 
twice over; even my own husband lost 
his heart. I can tell you I was quite jeal- 
ous." She gave a pleasant laugh, draw- 
ing the girl into her favour with a moth- 
erly tone and glance. 

Meanwhile a moment of indecision had 
fallen on the little group she had de- 
serted. With many misgivings Daisy 
was asking herself whether she should 
or should not make advances toward 
the possible disturber of her husband's 
projects? And as she hesitated between 
uncertainty as to Carey's views and the 
instinctive desire to stand in with Mrs. 
Power in all social matters, she experi- 
enced a wave of relief as she saw Stephen 
himself decide the point by stepping for- 
ward and greeting Isabel. 

"How are von. Miss Costello?" 

Isabel started at the sound of her 
name: and turning, gave her hand in a 
silence bom of sudden and uncontrollable 

"How are you?" he said again, a little 
awkwardly. "We haven't seen you since 
the night of the dance. Let me introduce 
my wife! I think you know my sister- 
in-law !" 

For a swift second Daisy looked at 
Isabel, Isabel at Daisy, appraising each 
other's value in an instant, as women 
do : then Daisy held out her hand. 

"How are vott?" she said. "We used 
to know each other long ago. I remem- 



ber you as well as anything at a children's 
party at the Burkes' when I was ten ; and 
you cried because I fell over you in 
'Blindman's Buff.' " 

"Oh, yes! I remember too." Isabel 
laughed. "I was only five, but I remem- 
ber as well as anything that you and your 
sister had blue dresses and fair plaits tied 
with blue. I envied you fearfully." 

Daisy echoed the laugh, and Mary 
Norris strolled slowly forward. "How 
are you?" she said, using the inevitable 
greeting. "How did you enjoy the dance? 
You seemed to be having a grand time, 
as far as I could see." 

"The dance? Oh, 'twas splendid! I 
loved it !" Isabel looked straight in front 
of her, conscious that Carey's eyes were 
watching her with half unwilling interest. 

"And who did you like best ?" Try as 
she might, Mary could not hide the half 
malicious lifting of the corner of her 

Isabel turned. "Oh, old Mr. Burke, 
of course!" she said with native readi- 

Carey laughed. "Good! Take my 
advice, Miss Costello, don't let them draw 
you !" 

Mary's smile deepened as she saw Isa- 
bel colour at the unexpected praise ; and 
Isabel, conscious both of the smile and 
of her own blush, glanced round con- 
fusedly. "We — we ought to be going," 
she said. "Where's Aunt Teresa ?" 

"Here! Here, my dear, gossiping 
with me ! You're right to remind us how 
idle we are. Daisy, I'll run in with you 
to Lady Lane." Mrs. Power wheeled 
round upon them with her large, placid 
personality and homely smile. 

Daisy made a hasty little gesture of 
pleasure and gratification. "Oh, do! 
Do, Mrs. Power!" Then, as she saw 
Mrs. Power look promptingly toward 
Isabel and Miss Costello. she added, in a 
less enthusiastic voice, "And you, Miss 
Costello! Won't you come in for a 
minute too ?" 

Miss Costello looked confused. "It's — 
it's very kind of you, Mrs. Carey, I'm 
sure ! Very kind of you !" 

" — Only we must go straight home," 
Isabel put in promptly. Swift in the 
gaining of an impression as in the 
prompting of an instinct, she had heard 

the hesitancy and felt the doubt in 
Daisy's mind. 

Miss Costello looked nervous, and 
Daisy slightly offended " — Oh, of course 
if you are busy — " she said. 

"We are. We promised to be back. 
Didn't we, Aunt Teresa?" 

At her niece's glance, poor Miss 
Costello wavered hopelessly. "We are. 
We did," she said. "It's Very kind of 
you, but " 

"Good-bye! You see we must go. 
Good-bye, Mrs. Power! Good-bye!" In 
turn Isabel shook hands with Daisy, 
Mary, Mrs. Power and, last of all, with 
Carey. For the one fleeting second that 
her hand rested in his, she glanced up at 
him — a quick, bright look difficult to 
read ; then* leaving her aunt to follow, 
she turned and walked out into the street. 

As Miss Costello beat a hurried re- 
treat, Daisy, whose eyes were upon Isa- 
bel's straight, lithe figure, spoke her 
thoughts. "She's queer, isn't she?" she 
said in a slow, meditative way. 

"Queer?" Mary cried. "I think she's 
the coolest person I ever met in my life. 
I can tell you I wouldn't like to be in the 
aunt's shoes." 

Mrs. Power put her hand on Mary's 
arm. "Ah, now, Mary, make excuses I 
What is she but a child !" 

"A very wide-awake child, Mrs. 
Power !" 

"Ah, no, Mary! I don't think so." 

"Don't you? Wait and see!" Mary 
turned, and began to make her own way 
through the crowd of loiterers. 

"And you, Stephen? What do you 
think of her? I like a man's opinion on 
my own sex." 

Carey turned, roused from a brown 
study. "I ?" he said. "Oh, I don't pre- 
tend to understand women, Mrs. Power." 


Meanwhile, Isabel and her aunt were 
making their way up the hill that led to 
New Town, where Miss Costello's small 
house stood behind its patch of garden. 
For several minutes after they had 
parted with the Careys neither of them 
spoke; but at last, as their goal drew 

9 2 


within sight, Isabel felt her sentiments 
no longer to be controlled. 

"Aunt Teresa/' she said suddenly, "I 
don't know — I really don't know how 
you can go on like that." 

Miss Costello half paused in her hur- 
ried walk. "Like what?" she demanded. 

"Oh, not having a bit of pride ! Not 
seeing when people don't want you !" 

"Don't want me? But the Careys 
wanted us — Daisy Carey herself asked 

Isabel tossed her head contemptuously. 
"Yes. Asked us because Mrs. Power 
was nice to us — and Mrs. Power is good 
position. Do you think she'd have done it 
except for that? Indeed she wouldn't!" 

Poor Miss Costello was crushed, never- 
theless she made a fight for her own atti- 
tude. "Well, I think you ought to have 
gone in all the same. You'll have to be 
friendly sooner or later, if you're to be 
one of the family." 

"I may never be one of the family!" 

"Isabel !" 

"Oh, well, I didn't mean that." 

Miss Costello heaved a sigh of relief 
for even this small mercy. "Of course 
not !" she said, to reassure herself. "Of 
course not. Not when you can count on 
Frank. I'm sure the poor fellow is de- 
voted enough !" 

Once more Isabel's chin was contemp- 
tuously raised. "Wpuld you like to be 
going to marry a 'poor fellow' ?" 

"You're very absurd, child ! You know 
I didn't mean it like that. I'm sure 
Frank is very talented." 

"Talented, indeed! I'll tell you what 
Frank is. He's just a shadow of his 
brother. Only for his brother, he 
wouldn't be there at all. I found that 
out since I came home." 

"The shadow of his brother? Indeed 
I don't agree with you. I think Frank 
Carey has plenty of cleverness of his 
own ; and I'd much prefer him myself to 
Stephen. He's a great deal pleasanter in 
his manner." 

"Weak people are nice to everybody, 
because they haven't courage to be any- 
thing else I" 

Isabel made this pronouncement as 
they were passing through the garden 
gate, and, having made it, she stepped 
aside into the small grass plot, to gather 

a handful of violets, while Miss Costello 
hurried into the house, where the one 
servant of the establishment was await- 
ing her superintendence in the cooking of 
the early dinner. 

The flowers gathered, Isabel made her 
own way indoors, passing up the narrow 
stairs to her cramped bedroom. Her 
first action on entering the room, was to 
cross to the dressing table, peer closely 
into the mirror at her own reflection and, 
taking off her hat, to toss it carelessly on 
the bed. 

She could not have explained her 
mood, but she felt restless and half 
angry. Nothing definite had happened 
to displease her, but it was precisely this 
negative condition of circumstances that 
left her disturbed. She would have 
everything fire or sun — battle or ecstasy ; 
the calm, the uneventful she banished 
from her toleration with an unsparing 

Having thrown her hat aside, she lin- 
gered for a while by the dressing table, 
her fingers drumming on the white cloth 
that covered the mahogany surface, her 
eyes dark and brooding; then, forced to 
action by some prompting thought, she 
slowly opened one of the table drawers 
and drew forth a blotter filled with odd 
sheets of note paper and envelopes of 
varying sizes, and unearthing a pen and a 
pot of ink from some dark recess, placed 
the whole collection upon the table. 

Her next move was to pull forward a 
chair and seat herself upon the edge of it, 
and this action was tvpical of her mood : 
the fact that she did not approach her 
task squarely showed that it was unwel- 
come, for to the things that were con- 
genial she went straight as a bird in its 
flight, heart and soul, mind and body — 
one undivided impulse. 

With her neck uncomfortably twisted 
and her elbow resting on the table, she 
dipped the pen into the ink, made a blot 
on the white cloth and, drawing forward 
a sheet of paper, wrote the words, "Dear- 
est Frank." 

For a long time she remained looking 
at this accomolished work and striving 
to connect it with herself. She looked at 
the words and wondered — looked at them 
again and wondered again. Why had 
the writing of a letter become a thing so 



irksome? She recalled her first note to 
Frank — how the blood had flooded her 
cheeks at the mere fact of putting a 
man's name upon paper — how every shy 
and halting expression had meant a sepa- 
* rate sensation. Why had all this 
changed? Why had the excitement, the 
glamour fallen from the whole idea, as 
colours might fade from a picture? A 
wave of impatience trembled across her 
mind. She felt angry — she felt cruel. 
Suddenly seizing the paper, she tore the 
letter in two, as though by the act she 
could inflict some punishment upon the un- 
conscious author of her disaffection ; then 
with equal suddenness she lifted her head 
in a listening attitude, for her quick 
ears had caught the sound of footsteps 
on the little gravel path, footsteps that 
were followed almost immediately by a 
knock on the hall door. 

Visitors were few and far between at 
the little house at New Town, and invol- 
untarily she rose and ran to the window. 
She pulled back the starched and torn 
lace curtain, and leaned forward curi- 
ously; then, as precipitately, she drew 
back again, all the anger, all the way- 
wardness gone from her face, every 
feature lighted up with sudden in- 

She sat down on the side of her bed, 
her hands clasped, her heart beating 
quickly, as she heard the slipshod steps 
of the servant shuffle down the hall, 
heard the door open, and heard the visi- 
tor's peremptory demand for Miss 
Costello. Next, she was conscious of 
two pairs of feet going down the passage 
and of the shutting of the parlour door, 
followed by a perfectly audible and flur- 
ried explanation between the servant and 
Miss Costello in the back regions of the 
"house; then lastly she distinguished her 
a'unt's steps on the creaking stairs, and 
a moment later saw her excited face 
round the corner of the bedroom door. 

"Isabel !" she exclaimed, almost before 
■she had entered the room. "Isabel, do 
you know who's below ?" 

Isabel sprang: to her feet. "S-sh, Aunt 
Teresa ! He'll hear you." 

"It's Stephen Carey." 

"I know." 

"What on earth can he want? What 
•do you think he can want?" 

"How do I know !" Isabel hid the light 
that was dancing in her eyes. 

44 Am I an awful object? I was just 
in the middle of making the apple dump- 
ling. It's a queer hour, indeed, for a 
person to be calling; he might have 
waited till three o'clock!" She came 
forward into the room, her hair a little 
more untidy than usual, a check apron 
covering her black dress and a dab of 
flour on her cheek testifying to her recent 
labours. "Let me look at myself!" she 
added, going up to the dressing table, and 
proceeding without permission to smooth 
her hair with Isabel's brush. 

At any other moment this would have 
called forth an indignant protest from 
the owner, but Isabel was too excited 
now to give heed to the niceties of prop- 
erty and, coming forward graciously, she 
even helped to pull down Miss Costello's 
sleeves and herself untied the apron 
strings and dusted the flour from her 

"Will I do now? I declare I am as 
flurried as anything, being called away 
like that in the middle of the dumpling! 
I only hope Lizzie will be able to go on 
with it." 

To this string of words Isabel paid not 
the slightest attention ; but, having made 
her aunt presentable, pushed her uncere- 
moniously toward the door. 

But Miss Costello refused to cross the 
threshold. "You'll come down with me, 
won't you? Oh, Isabel, you'll come 
down with me?" 

Isabel looked down, coquetting with 
herself. "I don't know." 

"Oh, Isabel, do! Be a good girl, and 

"Very well, I'll come after you. 1 

"Ah, come now! 1 

"No; afterward.' 

"Very well! Will I do?" 

"You're splendid." 

"Well, don't be long !" She nodded a 
last injunction; and, still full of nervous 
trepidation, made her way downstairs. 

Isabel stood on the tiptoe of interest 
as she heard her descend the stairs and 
open the parlour door, but her strained 
ears caught only the confused murmur 
of a greeting followed by the closing of 
the door ; and at this sign of privacy, she 
turned back again into the room, and for 





the second time since her return from 
mass walked up to the mirror and 
studied her appearance. This time the 
face that looked back into her own was 
alive and joyous, and as she brushed her 
ruffled hair, the sense of power and 
energy rose within her. 

Money was scarce in the small house- 
hold, and in consequence her wardrobe 
was of the scantiest; but with the un- 
quenchable instinct of adornment, she 
took a bow of cherry-coloured tulle from 
a drawer and pinned it at the neck of her 
pink muslin dress. As she was in the act 
of arranging it, steps sounded on the 
stairs, this time awkward and shuffling, 
and presently a knock sounded timidly 
on the door. 

" What is it ? Come in !" she called. 
The door opened an inch or two, and 
the face of Lizzie the servant appeared 
at the aperture. 

"Miss Isabel," she gasped, "Miss Cos- 
tello is wantin' you below in the parlour ; 
and she says youVe to be as quick as you 
can." Lizzie was newly from the coun- 
try, and as yet raw material. 

"All right! Only I wish you'd come 
into a room, Lizzie, when a person tells 
you to." 

"I will, miss! Yes, miss!" Lizzie 
backed incontinently down the stairs, 
overcome by embarrassment. 

Isabel, very nearly as agitated as the 
maid, put another pin into the tulle bow 
and hurried across the room and out into 
the corridor; but pride would not allow 
her to run down the stairs, though her 
feet danced to be off, and she reached 
the parlour door with a very dignified 

As she turned the handle and entered, 
however, a little of the dignity evapo- 
rated, for the scene was not quite what 
she had anticipated. At the mahogany 
table that well-nigh filled the little room, 
Miss Costello and Carey were seated 
upon two of the stiff horsehair chairs 
that had come, with Isabel herself, as a 
legacy from the improvident Dan. Carey 
was sitting bolt upright, looking resolute 
and very uncomfortable; while his com- 
panion, in a condition of obvious pertur- 
bation, was nervously plaiting and un- 
plaiting the fringe of the table cloth. 
As Isabel appeared, Carey rose. "I 

suppose you are rather surprised to see 
me again," he said. 

Isabel said nothing; if there was a dif- 
ficult moment to be faced, she decided 
that he must bear the brunt of it. 

Miss Costello stirred agitatedly in her 
seat. "Fm afraid Mr. Carey hasn't come 
on a very pleasant mission, Isabel." 

"No. No, Fm afraid I haven't. But 
won't you sit down ?" 

In the same determined silence Isabel 
accepted the chair he drew forward for 
her ; and resting her elbows on the table, 
clasped her hands under her chin. 

Carey, still obviously ill at ease, 
dropped back into his own seat and made 
a fresh essay. "I hadn't intended to do 
this — to come here like this," he said; 
"but I realised in the last three weeks 
that it mightn't be very easy to find an 
opportunity of seeing you, and so I de- 
cided to — to make the plunge." 

Isabel bent her head in acknowledg- 
ment that the words were meant for her, 
and Miss Costello gave a fluttering sigh. 

The difficulties placed in his way 
seemed to brace Stephen, for he* sud- 
denly cast aside his conciliatory tactics, 
and made a headlong rush for his point. 
"Of course you know why I came," he 

Isabel, offended by this bluntness, 
opened her eyes. "How could I know?" 

At the little touch of artificiality he 
lost patience. "Oh. don't make light of 
the matter J" he said quickly. "Frank is 
serious to me." 

In an instant Isabel was as angrily sin- 
cere as he. "And do you think he's not 
serious to me? Have you any right to 
suppose that ?" 

"Not serious, indeed!" Miss Costello 
murmured. "When I think of the 
prayers I have said and the candles I 
have lighted that we might be all guided 
to do right !" 

Isabel gave her a withering glance and 
turned again upon Carey. "After all, it 
must be more serious to me than to any- 
body " 

Except Frank himself." 

'How do you mean?" 

'Well, I mean that marriage must be 
more important to a man than to a 
woman — not in the sentimental sense, 
perhaps, but in the ordinary, practical, 





every-day sense. After all, if a woman 
likes* to make a poor marriage she does it 
with her eyes open and she finds compen- 
sations ; it's the man who does it blindly, 
and it's the man who sinks under it. I 
know what I'm talking about." 

"Some of the happiest couples have 
been poor!" ejaculated Miss Costello. 
"Look at my poor brother!" 

Carey refrained from making use of 
the weapon placed in his hands, and 
merely said, "Don't forget that your 
brother is dead, Miss Costello, and that 
death casts a sort of glamour over 

She heaved a sigh. "Ah, Dan was a 
saint!" she murmured to herself. "A 
saint !" 

•'But poor people can be happy," Isabel 
cried. "Poor people can be happy. I'd 
rather be a beggar ten times over than 
make what they call here a 'good match.' 
I think it's much more to be despised to 
sell yourself as if you were a sheep or a 
horse than to marry because you care." 

"Isabel! Isabel!" 

'Be quiet. Aunt Teresa! I will say 
what I think. You hate me to marrv 
Frank because I have no monev; but if 
I was rich you'd let us get married to- 
morrow, even if I was lame or blind. 
You think of nothing but money — money 
and position. You live in a little, little 
world, where if people ever do feel any- 
thing, they're afraid to say so !" 

Carey, watching the expressions dark- 
ening and lighting her face, leaned sud- 
denly across the table. "Miss Costello," 
he said, "do you know that I thought 
exactly the same as that when I was 
your age ? When I was twenty I thought 
Water ford the narrowest hole on God's 
earth, and myself the one man who was 
going to step outside it. But — " he gave 
a quick, despondent shrug of the shoul- 
ders — "I went under when the time 
came. I went under like the rest. There's 
a big machine called expediency, and we 
are its abject slaves. We oil it and pol- 
ish it and keep it running, every man and 
woman of us : and if by any chance one 
of us puts his hands behind his back and 
says he won't feed the monster any 
more, what happens? Does the machine 
stop ? Not it ! It's the deserter who goes 
under, the machine roars on louder than 

before. It's only by pandering to it that 
we live at all : and the man who has oiled 
his own particular wheel is in duty bound 
to see that those dependent on him learn 
to oil theirs. This brother of mine be- 
longs to me; I've fathered him and 
trained him and educated him, and I 
must see him have a fair start. You 
must see my position ! You must see my 
point of view ! I'm writing to Frank to- 
night: let me tell him that you see the 
fplly of it all?" 

Isabel kept her hands obstinately 
locked, her eyes obstinately lowered. 

"Let me write that to-night? Frank 
isn't a boy with a great deal of character ; 
he's not the boy to make a way for him- 

"He cares for me." 

"I have no doubt he does. But no ro- 
mantic man ever made a fortune." 

Her eyes blazed again. "I don't want 
a fortune. I told you that." 

"I see! Then it's no use? The sen- 
sible thing doesn't appeal to you?" 

"No, it does not. I hate the sensible 

"All right ! I'm sorry ! You force me 
to do what I don't like to do." 

"What's that?" Isabel stood up. 

"You force me to tell Frank that un- 
less he breaks off this engagement I must 
stop supplies. It's very unpleasant, but 
there's nothing else for it. I've done 
what I could." He rose rather stiffly 
from his chair. 

Isabel paled, then reddened violently. 
"You — you would do that ?" she said. 

"For his own good, yes. T told you 
the matter was serious to me." 

"Oh, Mr. Carey, yon wouldn't !" cried 
Miss Costello. "You surely wouldn't! 
Think of the poor fellow's feelings! 
Young people will be young people, you 

"Stop, Aunt Teresa! Mr. Carey, do 
you think that when you write that to 
Frank he'll break off the engagement?" 

Carey hesitated. "Frank is not strong- 

"That means you do think it? You 
think he'll give me up at a word from 
von ? 

"Certainly not that. But he is depend- 
ent on me; he has nothing, not a penny 
of his own — and a man must live." 

9 6 


"And suppose he writes back that he 
doesn't care a pin about your money?" 

Carey began to move slowly toward 
the door. "On his own head be it, then !" 
he said. "I'll have done my best. I'm 
sorry I should have had to offend you." 
He hesitated and looked back at her. 

But Isabel would not look at him. 

"Won't you say good-bye? I am 
sorry — though you may not believe it." 

"Good-bye I" She did not look up or 
hold out her hand. t 

"Good-bye, Miss Costello!" He turned 
to the older woman. 

"Good-bye, Mr. Carey! I suppose 
you're acting for the best; but indeed I 
must say you're hard — you're very hard." 

He did not attempt to shake hands 
with her ; and, passing out of the room in 
silence, he went quietly down the hall 
and let himself out by the small front 

Instantly he was gone, Miss Costello's 
feelings burst all bounds. "Oh, Isabel," 
she cried, "what a frightful thing ! What 
a terrible thing ! A good match like that 
slipping away before our very eyes! 
What a pity your poor father wasn't 
more saving — not that he had anything 
to save! But if only you had a little 
money now, how different things would 
be! To think that a son of old Barny 
Carey, the builder, should have it in his 
power to despise one of the Costellos!" 

Isabel stood for a moment listening to 
her aunt with pale lips and eyes black 
with passion ; then all at once she brought 
her hands together with a fierce gesture. 
"Aunt Teresa," she said, "if you sav one 
word more you'll drive me stark, staring 
mad!" And before Miss Costello had 
time to recover from her surprise, she 
had vanished from the room. 


For a week inaction oppressed Isabel's 
life: then the atmosphere lifted. A let- 
ter arrived from Paris. 

With the arrival of this letter every- 
thing was altered; it was as if a cloud 
had been dispersed, permitting the sun of 
activity to shine forth again and fill her 
world. She read it in the morning, while 

Miss Costello was at the ten o'clock 
mass; and armed with sudden decision, 
did not wait to peruse the pages a second 
time, but, pinning on her hat, sallied 
forth from the house, on fire with the 
sense of adventure. 

The Waterford streets are not very 
remarkable either for business activity 
or beauty at ten b clock in the morning, 
but romance is a matter of soul, not of 
surroundings; and as she threaded her 
way down the incline of streets from 
New Town to the Mall, her heart sang 
to the lilt of her thoughts, and her blood 
kept time like a dancer's feet. 

At the corner of the Mall she stopped 
to give a penny to a blind beggar, and 
the man's eloquent flow of blessings 
seemed the last note in the peon of 
triumph. For she was about to commit 
an act of daring, she was about to out- 
rage that conventionality in which the 
members of her set moved and breathed ; 
and as she swung along the streets, she 
recalled Carey's outburst in the little 
parlour, his simile of the great, insistent 
machine of expediency; and in added 
stimulus the vision of herself rose up as 
one of the fearless few with hands meta- 
phorically locked, refusing to feed the 

Crossing one or two of the more im- 
portant thoroughfares, she passed at 
last into one of the quieter, narrower 
streets that in every town are stamped 
with the seal of the professions, and over 
which an air of privacy is gathered like 
a garment. With eager and yet hesi- 
tating steps she threaded her way along 
the deserted footpath, taking quick, side- 
long glances at the windows carefully 
screened from the vulgar gaze, until at 
last the name of "Stephen Carey, Solici- 
tor," displayed in black letters on grated 
ironwork, brought her to a standstill. 

With an involuntary impulse she 
glanced up and down the silent street; 
then, with slightly nervous haste, turned 
in at the open doorway. 

A dark and dusty passage confronted 
her as she stepped in out of the daylight, 
but a door at this farther end gave re- 
newed hope, for there again Carey's 
name was blazoned forth ; and hurrying 
forward, she knocked twice on the glass 
panel. For a moment she waited, listen- 



ing intently; then, as no sound reached 
her, she spurred her courage and turned 
the handle. 

The room into which she stepped was 
Carey's outer office, and to a first glance 
it looked almost as unattractive as the 
passage that led to it. The ceiling was 
high; the walls bare, save where they 
were fitted with shelves; and the only 
pieces of furniture were two high desks 
placed in the middle of the room. 

A reedy youth of eighteen or nineteen 
was seated at one of the desks, a pen be- 
hind each red ear, his long legs twined 
round an office stool; at sound of the 
opening door, he looked round casually, 
only to be transfixed with surprise at 
sight of the intruder. 

Isabel coloured angrily at his open-eye 
stare. "I want to see Mr. Carey,'^ she 
announced promptly. "Is he here?" 

The youth took a third pen from be- 
tween his teeth. "You can't see him," he 
said in a drawling voice that seemed to 
part grudgingly with his words. 
"Is he here?" 
"Yes, he's here." 
"Then why can't I see him?" 
"Well, you can't, for he's engaged." 
Isabel, who was no respecter of per- 
sons, made haste to probe this statement. 
"What is he doing?" she demanded. 

The youth, nonplussed by such direc- 
ness, was drawn to answer directly. 
"Well, he's talking to the head clerk." 

At this Isabel's assurance flowed back 
in full measure. "Is that all ?" she said 
contemptuously. "Go and tell him at 
once that somebody wants him!" 

The youth wriggled on his stool. "Oh, 
I don't know that I can," he demurred. 
"Are you a client?" 

Isabel ignored both the objection and 
the question. "Where is he?" she asked. 
He indicated a second door. "In there, 
in his private office." 

She acknowledged the information by 
a nod of her head. "Very well! Then 
I'll tell him myself," she said ; and to the 
amazement of the youth she crossed the 
room, and without more ado knocked 
peremptorily on the inner door. 

There was a slight pause after the 
knock fell; then a sound of steps in the 
inner room, followed by the opening 
of the door, and the head clerk, a fair 

man with a short beard and near-sighted 
eyes, looked out impatiently. 

"What do you want, Thomas?" he 
said; then, seeing the intruder, he broke 
off. "Oh, I beg your pardon ! What can 
I do for you?" 

"Can I see Mr. Carey? My name is 
Costello. Perhaps you'll tell him that 
I'm here."" 

"Certainly, certainly, I will." The clerk 
glanced behind him hesitatingly, then 
stepped aside, as he saw Carey rise 
quickly from his desk and come across 
the room. 

The surprise that had crossed Stephen's 
face at the sound of Isabel's voice was 
still visible as he pushed past the clerk 
and threw the door wide ; and in that first 
unguarded second she seized upon the 
certainty that the surprise was not un- 

"I suppose I oughtn't to have come! 
But I wanted to see you, and I couldn't 
think of any other place." 

Carey laughed, as he took her hand 
and drew her into the office. "You can 
go on with that deed, Allman !" he added ; 
and the head clerk withdrew, closing the 

She had taken him unprepared; and 
in the moment of surprise, it seemed that 
he was once more the Stephen Carey of 
the Fair Hill dance — the real man, un- 
shackled by convention. 

Isabel's spirits soared high. She 
looked into his face, echoing his laugh. 

"But I shouldn't have come, should I ?" 

"You shouldn't — unless you want legal 
advice !" 

She took the chair he pushed forward 
for her, watching him seat himself at the 
large, flat-topped desk where he trans- 
acted all his work. 

"You can guess why I came, can't 

you ?" 

"Another battle?" 

She made no reply ; but, smiling under 
the half-quizzical, half-questioning gaze 
of his eyes, slipped her hand into her 
pocket and pulled out a large foreign 

" 'Twas for this. I wanted to show 
you this." 

She held out the letter, and, as it 
passed from her hand to his, she sank 
back again into her chair, apparently ab- 

9 8 


sorbed in a study of the black tin boxes 
lining the walls, but in reality listening 
with sharp intensity to the rustle of the 
paper .between his fingers. She stayed 
quite motionless while he drew the sheet 
of paper from its envelope and while he 
turned the first page; then, unable to 
restrain her curiosity, she moved in her 
seat and shot a swift glance at him, as he 
sat with head bent and body leaning for- 
ward. As if conscious of her glance, he 
looked up. 

"So you wanted me to read this?" 

She nodded. 

He folded the letter and refolded it, 
drawing out the creases mechanically, 
while his eyes fixed themselves upon the 
papers crowded on his desk. 

" So this is Frank's answer to me? He 
cares nothing for me or for my money, 
so long as you stick to him 1" 

He spoke in a low voice, so low that it 
was impossible to follow its expression; 
and Isabel, watching his immobile face, 
felt her courage falter as she put her 
next question. 

"Are you very disappointed?" 

He looked up at her again, and his 
glance was the hard, cold glance with 
which he had always scanned his fail- 
ures. "Oh, I acknowledge myself 
beaten !" 

The colour leaped into her face — the 
red banner of success. This was the 
moment for which she had lived as she 
swung along the streets, and her whole 
spirit rose now to meet it. With one of 
her swiftest gestures she stood up and 
w r alked across to him. 

"Mr. Carey/' she said, the nervous 
note of tense excitement thrilling in her 
voice — "Mr. Carey, why do you treat me 
as if I was a sort of enemy? Why do 
you speak to me as if I was trying to 
bring Frank to ruin, just out of spite? 
Why have you never asked me to break 
off with him as — as a sort of favour — as 
a sort of kindness?" 

She looked down at him as he sat 
there, too amazed to think of rising, her 
•finger-tips resting on the desk, her face 
brimming with expression. 

"Why haven't you ever thought that I 
might do it to help you — to please you ?" 

Carey glanced up. "I suppose I only 
know one way of getting things." 

She threw back her head. "And you 
think women like that way?" 

He was silent. It did not come to him 
to tell her that all his life he had com- 
manded, not asked, of women. 

"Don't you think if you had asked, 
things might have been different?" 

"I never ask." 

"Ask now!" The words were almost 
a whisper — a whisper in which he could 
hear the catch and quiver of her breath. 

He twisted round in his seat. "What 
do you mean by that ?" 

"What I say. Ask now !" 

Native suspicion ousted the surprise 
in his face. "I don't like being made a 
fool of !" 

Isabel drew herself up. "And do you 
think I came here to make a fool of you ? 
I'll tell you why I came ! I came to tell 
you that you can keep Frank — that I 
don't want him — that I'm done with 

In the immeasurable relief of the mo- 
ment, Carey jumped up. "You mean 
that?" he cried. "You actually mean 

"I do mean it, yes." 

They stood for a moment looking at 
each other in the quiet office — he ab- 
sorbed by the news, she observant of 
him. In the crucial moments of life it is 
always the woman who puts the eternal 
"Why?" Man, the active, the unanalyti- 
cal, who deals in results. It never 
touched Carey's mind to question the 
motives that had prompted this act of 
renunciation, the tangled feelings that 
had prompted the change of front ; if he 
saw Isabel in the affair at all, it was 
merely as the exponent of an unlooked- 
for generosity — a creature who had 
proved herself strangely sensible by fall- 
ing in with his own views. The subtler 
compliment went altogether unobserved. 

"It's — it's very generous of you," he 
said at length. "What can I say ?" 

"I don't ask you to say anything. I'm 
not doing it for thanks." 

"And Frank? Have you thought of 

"I'll write to Frank to-night." 

Carey's face changed. "He'll be very 
much cut up, remember! He'll do all 
sorts of things. He'll probably threaten 
to kill himself when he first hears this." 


Isabel smiled. "First? You're not 
very complimentary." 

"Oh, it has nothing to do with you. 
It's only that I know Frank — and that 
you may as well be prepared. As for 
compliments, I can't pay them, but I'd 
like to ask von to forgive me for — a 
lot of things :'and I'd like — I'd like, if it's 
possible, to be friends." 

Her glance, quick and warm, flashed 
to him. "You're sincere when you say 

"Yes. I am." 

She held out her hand in a swift, free 
gesture. "Then I'll go. I wanted you 
to say it. Good-bye!" 

He took her fingers in his hard, strong 

"Good-bye! — and thanks!" 

This was their parting. No promise 
of a future meeting, no suggestion of all 
that was yet to come. A favour given, 
a favour received ; a clasp of the hands, 
an inarticulate sense of mutual under- 

(To be continued) 


NE of the principles 
of narrative construction 
that are systematically 
drilled into college soph- 
omores, during their 
course in theme work, is 
that of emphasis by posi- 
tion. There are, they are told, certain 
positions in every story, such as the open- 
ing and the closing chapter and, in less 
degree, the beginning and the end of 
every chapter, where a skilful novelist 
may by clever manipulation of his ma- 
terial throw the limelight upon the really 
big episodes of his plot. In other words, 
instructors teach emphasis by position, 
and many a successful novelist applies it, 
as though it were a principle to be in- 
voked or disregarded at will, a force that 
operates only when a character of com- 
manding presence, an episode of vital 
dramatic interest, is assigned to the place 
of honour. What should be taught,on the 
contrary, is that Emphasis by Position is 
a factor which cannot be eliminated from 
narrative, a power far more apt to be 
abused than used effectively; for just as 
surely as every story must have a begin- 
ning and an end, so surely must it throw 
upon two of its paragraphs the tremen- 
dous stress that belongs to the First and 

the Last Impression — and it is hard to 
say to which of two dangers the average 
writer is more likely to succumb, that of 
squandering emphasis upon incidents 
which are emphatic enough in whatever 
position they occupy, or that of throwing 
into prominence details that are of no 
real structural significance. 

Of all the emphatic positions in a 
novel, that which is most apt to be mis- 
used is the initial position — the opening 
paragraph, the beginning of a new epi- 
sode, the first entry of a character, the 
first line of a description. There are a 
hundred ways in which to make either the 
principle or the subsidiary beginnings; 
and any one of them may be the right 
way, provided the novelist knows what 
he is trying to do, realises the special 
stress he is laying upon a certain act or 
speech or thought by the order in which 
he presents it, and has his own sufficient 
reasons for wishing the special stress to 
fall exactly there and nowhere else. Like 
so many other subtleties that enter into 
the making of fiction, it cannot be re- 
duced to dogmatic rules. Given a certain 
group of facts, it is impossible to say, 
This is the fact with which to begin, that 
is the fact with which to follow, and so 
on in logical sequence. On the contrary, 



the order of narration depends less upon 
the story you have to tell than upon the 
standpoint from which you wish to tell it. 
Suppose, for instance, that your story 
deals with a young woman who has stolen 
a diamond ring, is arrested and placed on 
trial. Now, you may treat that story 
from the standpoint of the general public, 
starting with the discovery of the theft, 
following up the various clues until sus- 
picion falls upon the woman, and ending 
with her trial and a verdict of guilty. Or 
you can make the story a study of the 
jury room, starting it with the jury's first 
glimpse of the woman as she is called to 
the bar, with the shadow of the charge 
resting upon her, and then unfold the de- 
tails of the case as they are successively 
revealed by the witnesses. Or still again, 
you can treat it as a study in pathology, 
beginning your narrative several years 
earlier, showing the woman as a neurotic, 
abnormal child, already a prey to ungov- 
ernable impulses, and more than once de- 
tected in petty pilferings from her play- 
mates, of objects for which she cannot 
explain her craving. Throw such an 
episode into your opening chapter, 
and you stamp it upon the reader's 
memory, so that throughout the sub- 
sequent trial scene, as he watches the 
meshes of testimony slowly ensnare the 
accused woman, he sees in her, not a 
common thief, but the sickly, unbal- 
anced child of earlier years, the victim 
of heredity. 

But while it is impossible to lay down 
hard and fast rules for the starting point 
of a story, there is at least one principle 
upon which we have a right to insist, and 
that is, that the novelist shall be honest 
with us, and that every time he gives us 
a first impression, whether of his hero and 
heroine, or only of his hero's dog and 
his heroine's cat, he shall emphasise 
something that really counts, something 
that will follow us throughout the book 
and enter into the fabric of the plot. A 
couple of concrete examples of an honest 
and a dishonest use of the First Impres- 
sion will illustrate the distinction better 
than whole pages of theorising. Take on 
the one hand. Uncle Tom's Cabin, and on 
the other The Three Musketeers, two 
books that it is safe to assume are famil- 
iar to the great majority of readers. It 

seems at first sight as if Mrs. Stowe's 
story, considered as an epic of slavery, 
with its grim brutality, its tragic separa- 
tion of families, its degradation of a race, 
began rather tamely with the quiet con- 
tentment of life on the Shelbys' Kentucky 
plantation. And yet it was the force of 
this First Impression of slavery at its 
best, this ineffaceable picture of Uncle 
Tom's Kentuckv cabin, that follows us 
throughout the succeeding tragedy, and 
adds to the touch of inimitable pathos 
which comes from contrast. On the other 
hand, the opening episode of The Three 
Musketeers is a striking example of the 
thoroughly dishonest First Impression in 
fiction. The whole episode of D'Artag- 
nan's first encounter with the Man of 
Meung, and the loss of his papers, re- 
fuses to be forgotten — ask any reader of 
Dumas, and he can give it to you, off 
hand, to the last detail. And this seems 
a pity, because there is nothing gained 
by remembering it ; D'Artagnan not only 
failed to measure swords with the Man 
from Meung at that first meeting, but 
although on a dozen different occasions 
you think he is on the point of achieving 
his revenge, nothing ever comes of it — 
the quarrel has no structural importance. 
Even when you read in a postscript that 
later on they did cross swords several 
times and ended by becoming good 
friends, the news leaves you indifferent ; 
you have already learned the structural 
dishonesty of the whole episode of the 
Man of Meung. And it is dishonest for 
still another and a more vital reason. It 
presents D'Artagnan in a false light as 
not merely young and inexperienced, but 
rash, hot-headed and easily duped. The 
D'Artagnan of the opening chapter is a 
different person from the D'Artagnan of 
the rest of 'the book. Otherwise he 
never would have recovered the queen's 
diamonds, or escaped Milady de Winter, 
or outwitted the cardinal. And it is 
equally certain that he would never have 
enjoyed the esteem of that worthy trio, 
Athos, Porthos and Aramis. Take, for 
the sake of contrast, their first appear- 
ance on the scene, and you see what 
Dumas could do when he chose in the 
way of honest First Impressions : just a 
paragraph apiece and you know their 
several characters once for all. 


The art of emphasis by position is one 
of the many things which need not be 

taught to those who have 
"Janet the inborn gift of story 

of the telling. They feel their 

Dunes" subject so keenly that 

they instinctively strike 
at the very outset the true keynote. This 
is eminently true of writers of quiet 
stories, clear-sighted chroniclers of the 
simple, primitive life in country village 
and sea-coast town — and a rather force- 
ful case in point is Janet of the Dunes, by 
Harriet T. Comstock. It is quite an un- 
pretentious story of life on the south 
shore of Long Island among the fisher 
folk, the lighthouse keepers, the men of 
the life-saving station. You catch 
glimpses of the big, outside world, with 
its opulence, its selfishness and its temp- 
tations ; you watch the influx of the sum- 
mer colony, with its gaiety and its glitter ; 
but you see it all from the point of view 
of the simple, honest, brave-hearted men 
and women who have been born and bred 
among the dunes, and who look askance 
at any life apart from the tingle of wind 
and the toss of waves. And this sense 
of great, silent stretches of sand and 
water, of the isolation and loneliness of 
the dunes, and of the steadfastness and 
bravery of the people who dwell among 
them, strikes you like a breath of strong, 
keen sea air at the opening page, and the 
stimulus of it follows you from chapter 
to chapter throughout the book. There 
is nothing dramatic in the homely, inti- 
mate discussion with which the story 
opens between Janet and the man she 
affectionately calls Cap'n Daddy, and be- 
lieves to be her father; but it gives an 
initial impression of warm-hearted, clean- 
minded girlhood that stays by us in later 
chapters, and tells us that, though Janet 
may, in her ignorance, be careless of con- 
ventions, though she may linger on the 
dunes, talking to a strange artist from 
the city, and even let him persuade her to 
pose for him ; and though she may finally 
be found alone with him in the little 
shack where he does his painting, yet in 
the end she will come out unscathed by 
the trials and temptations which beset 
her. But the book is worth reading, not 
only for the sake of the story, but also 
because it contains a dozen memorable 

characters of an unfamiliar type, whose 
acquaintance it is a pleasure to make and 
to retain. 

An example of the wrong sort of First 
Impression, a lack of the instinctive rec- 
ognition of just what ele- 
ment in the story needed 
"Travers" to be emphasised at the 

start, is Trovers, by Sara 
Dean. That the author 
has a big theme, one may even say without 
fear of contradiction, a tremendous 
theme, becomes evident before we are a 
third of the way through the volume. 
That she has handled certain phases of it 
with real power and an intelligent rec- 
ognition of what she is trying to do must 
also be conceded. And if, at the end, we 
are forced to admit that the plot was 
bigger than the execution of it, that is not 
to the author's discredit, because only 
one of the giants among the makers of 
fiction could have told that story as it 
deserves to have been told. Briefly 
phrased, the central theme deals with the 
mental and moral revolution effected in 
men and women when confronted by 
some vast, cataclysmal change in nature, 
a cyclone, a tidal wave, an eruption — 
something that suddenly sweeps away 
established law and order and brings to 
the surface all the primitive impulses 
dormant in each of us. Travers, the 
central character of Sara Dean's novel, 
once a British army officer, but driven 
from the service under suspicion of theft, 
has wandered half way around the world, 
always followed by his unsavoury rec- 
ord, constantly drifting lower and lower, 
until at last he tires of the struggle, and 
feels that since he bears the reputation 
of a criminal he may as well reap the 
profit of one. He is at this time in San 
Francisco, on the eve of the great earth- 
quake. He sees Gwendolyn Thornton 
with a gay party in the restaurant of the 
Palace Hotel; he notes her magnificent 
diamonds, and he determines to possess 
them. A few hours later the girl awak- 
ens in her bedroom to see a strange man 
pocketing her rings, her necklace, her 
tiara — and then, as they look into each 
other's eyes, the floor beneath them be- 
gins to sway, beams crush through the 
ceiling, followed by a rain of bricks, and 
the horrors of the earthquake have be- 



gun. Travers forgets that he is a thief ; 
he remembers only that he is a man, and 
here is a woman, young and helpless, 
needing his protection. How Travers 
manages to take Gwendolyn to a place 
of safety ; how he provides for her safety 
and comfort during the ensuing days; 
how his old-time skill as an army sur- 
geon comes back in the hour of need, 
and he wins back his own self-respect 
while saving lives in the improvised tent, 
"Ward One, Twin Peaks" — all this is 
pictured with a remarkably clear under- 
standing of complex mental phases, and 
stands out vividly against the tragic back- 
ground of the blazing city. Strongly 
drawn, also, is the scene, at a later day, 
when Travers and Gwendolyn make their 
way back into the threatened business 
district, where the girl's dead aunt had 
her office and her securities; and, after 
running the gauntlet of falling ruins and 
alert soldiers, arrive just in time to find 
the girl's betrothed husband in the act of 
looting the safe of her fortune. The 
book is an admirable study in unexpected 
contrasts of good and evil, and of course 
the ultimate regeneration of Travers 
under the spell of Gwen's faith and love 
is a foregone conclusion. But in order 
to get the best first impression, open the 
book at Chapter IV, the burglary and 
earthquake scene. Chapter I is a wasted 
opportunity; it simply lets us listen to 
the conversation of two men who sit in 
the court of the Palace Hotel, see Trav- 
ers pass by, and vaguely wonder whether 
or not he is the ex-army officer. All that 
you bring away from that first chapter 
is a hazy impression of a strong-featured, 
broad-shouldered man with a mystery 
about him, but not a hint of the real 
quality of the man or of the tremendous 
drama of which he is to be the centre. 

The Harringtons of Highcroft Farm, 
by J. S. Fletcher, shows us at the start 

a long, narrow wheat 
field in the Yorkshire 
uplands in all the young, 
green beauty of early 
June; a well-built, hard- 
working English lad, hoeing industriously 
down the long, straight, monotonous 
rows, while his thoughts are set on 
higher things — the books he has read and 
the books that he some day hopes to 

'The Harring- 
tons of High- 
croft Farm" 

write — altogether, an impression of 
sturdy youth and brave ambition and the 
sunshine and gladness of life's spring- 
time; and that, on the whole, is not a 
bad summing up of a large portion of 
the book. But the story is not alone the 
story of Gerard Harrington and his am- 
bitions and dreams and their fulfilment; 
it is the chronicle of a family, proud, 
stubborn, secretive; a family whose sev- 
eral members clash constantly, and 
whose fortunes are held together only 
by the frail existence of Gerard's grand- 
mother; the reader knows, and most 
of the characters in the book know, that 
at her death the house of cards on which 
the supposed prosperity of the Harring- 
tons rests will tumble apart and High- 
croft farm pass into other hands. Chron- 
icle is a better name than novel for this 
book. Its interest is not so much in how 
it all turns out as in the personality of 
every separate member of the Harring- 
ton family. You grow to know them 
well, to like them without always quite 
knowing why; you even condone their 
shortcomings and end with an indulgent 
pity for the worst sinner of them all, the 
smug, pharisaical Uncle Benjamin, who 
reaps as he sows, and comes at last to 
a penniless dependence. You are glad 
that Gerard buys a pipe and tobacco for 
Uncle Benjamin ; it is one of those trivial 
little episodes which linger in the mem- 
ory when many a bigger event is for- 

In the case of G. B. Lancaster's new 
volume, The Tracks We Tread, the first 

impression, and the next, 
and still the next, clear 
on to the end, are all to 
the same purport : that it 
is a book of uncommon 
calibre, rugged, sincere, tremendously 
virile — a book that pictures the rough, 
hard men of a rough, hard country 
frankly, without illusion or euphemism, 
but with a deep understanding of human 
nature that makes it a book to linger 
over. They are alive, all those New 
Zealand herders of sheep and of cattle; 
and so are all the loafers and dredgers 
and gangers with whom they touch elbow 
in the intimacy of Blake's u bar-parlour" 
on the nights when a load of sheep or 
rabbit skins takes them into town. Listen 

We Tread" 


to them over their glasses; their talk is 
in an unfamiliar tongue; you sometimes 
liave to read a phrase over once or twice 
to grasp the meaning of its racy idiom ; 
but it is the talk of men who have lived, 
and toiled, and sinned, too, it may be — 
but Mr. Lancaster has caught it straight 
from the lips of the men themselves ; you 
feel, as you read, that he has had no 
need to coin the first or the last word of 
it. One is tempted, just for the con- 
venience of the comparison, to call The 
Tracks We Tread a New Zealand version 
of The Virginian; yet that would be a 
form of injustice to both books, for it 
overlooks Mr. Wister's greater charm of 
style and Mr. Lancaster's greater sin- 
cerity. In a certain way, if we single 
out Randal's career as the central inter- 
est in the book, his apparently hopeless 
love for the daughter of the man he 
works for, and his final triumph over ob- 
stacles, there is a similarity in the plots 
of the two stories. But plot in Mr. Lan- 
caster's book counts for comparatively 
little. What does count is manhood, un- 
varnished and unashamed — the manhood 
that does not always conform to the 
social code of cities, nor even to the writ- 
ten law of statute books, but that never- 
theless does have its stern, rigid stand- 
ards and abides by them. And it is not 
merely the sort of life he pictures, but 
also the peculiar vigour with which he 
pictures it, that makes up the exceptional 
power of Mr. Lancaster's books. There 
are few men writing to-day who could 
approach him in sheer vividness when it 
comes to describing the hot haste, the 
mad recklessness of a man-hunt, the 
wild, destructive rush of stampeded 
cattle, the seething savagery of mob 
violence. These are some of the things 
that give colour to his pages. And in 
the midst of them one comes quite un- 
expectedly across brief flashes of ten- 
derness and pathos, that stand out in 
bold relief by force of contrast. 

A book so unpretentious in style, in 
subject and in general appearance that 

its modest and very gen- 

"Bachelor u * ne cnarm 1S ,n danger 

Betty" °* being overlooked is 

Bachelor Betty, by Win- 
ifred James. In some 
-ways it suggests comparison with The 

Lady of the Decoration, which, after 
hanging fire for many months, suddenly 
burst forth in an unexpected blaze of 
popularity. The two stories have at least 
this in common : they are both written in 
the first person, they both chronicle the 
experiences of a brave young woman 
struggling to stifle homesickness and 
loneliness in a strange land and win her 
way to a successful independence, and 
they both end in complete surrender to 
the man against whom the heroine has 
been steadily trying to steel her heart. 
But here the similarity ends; and when 
we examine the points of difference the 
advantage seems to lie very largely in 
favour of Bachelor Betty, There is, to 
be sure, nothing odd or unaccustomed 
about the stage setting — it is the jour- 
nalistic, semi-bohemian life of London. 
The novelty all lies in the way in which 
the familiar scenes impress a stranger, 
an inexperienced young woman from 
Australia, who is trying to make her pen 
earn her a name as well as a living. The 
book is written with very slight struc- 
tural art — if it had not appealed strongly 
for indulgence by the unconscious and 
quite genuine charm of its later chapters 
there would have been a strong tempta- 
tion to single it out from this month's 
instalment of fiction as the best available 
example of an unintelligent use of em- 
phasis by position, a wasted opportunity 
in first impressions. But because, taken 
as a whole, the book is so distinctly worth 
while, it is enough to say that we might 
easily dispense with the Australian chap- 
ter and the several chapters that follow, 
the ocean voyage to England, the friends 
that Betty makes upon the steamer, the 
ports she stops at, and what she thinks 
about them all. The real story does not 
begin until much farther on, after we 
make the acquaintance of the Oldest 
Man, who is twenty- four; the Youngest 
Man, who is upward of forty, and last 
but not least the toy elephant. If we 
were to pick out some single distinctive 
feature of Bachelor Betty, it is that of 
having endowed a stuffed toy elephant 
with a personality and of making us feel 
that it is an important personage in the 
story, whose welfare is a matter of seri- 
ous concern. No matter how brave or 
how clever a young man may be, there 



"Under the 



come times when that worst of all forms 
of loneliness, the loneliness of a big city, 
makes itself felt, and pent-up feelings 
must have some object upon which to 
expend themselves, if it be only a cat, a 
canary or a teddy bear. In the case of 
Bachelor Betty it is a toy elephant; and 
the way in which that elephant creeps 
little by little into our affections, as we 
grow to feel a proper appreciation of his 
structural importance ' in the story, is 
really no small triumph on the part of 
the author ; for this is one of those cases 
that lie close to the border line between 
pathos and comedy. The best evidence 
of the completeness of the author's vic- 
tory lies in the fact that our first con- 
viction of the Youngest Man's worthi- 
ness to win Bachelor Betty dates from 
discovery that he knows how to treat 
the elephant with becoming deference 
and affection. 

Under the Southern Cross, by Eliza- 
beth Robins, begins, like Bachelor Betty, 

on board an ocean 
steamer. But in this case 
the first impression is an 
honest one; within the 
first few paragraphs we 
get the scene, the leading characters, the 
main motif of the whole story. From 
the moment that Baron de Bach — the im- 
petuous Peruvian gentleman whose 
father was a German and whose mother 
a Castilian, while he himself was bred 
in France and claims the title of cos- 
mopolite — makes the acquaintance of the 
self-possessed young American woman 
who records the episode in the first per- 
son, it is quite evident that flint and steel 
have struck together, and the only ques- 
tion is, which of the two directly con- 
cerned is likely to be burned by the 
resulting fire? It is seldom that one 
comes across a new type of hero in the 
lighter sort of hammock fiction who is 
so sympathetic, so genuine, so altogether 
attractive as the Baron de Bach. And 
yet it is quite evident that the Baron's 
somewhat old-fashioned notions of 
woman's dependence upon man make it 
impossible for an American girl of such 
ultra-independence as the heroine to find 
a lasting happiness in his company. The 
special triumph which Miss Robins has 
achieved is to carry through a really seri- 

ous love affair with a sustained touch of 
lightness during a lengthy voyage; to 
make us thoroughly fond of the man and 
of the girl; to make us hope, almost to 
the last, that in some way their tempera- 
mental and their acquired differences 
may be reconciled ; and then, in the end, 
to leave us quite satisfied to find that the 
inevitable has happened. An exceed- 
ingly clever story, written with a half- 
veiled touch of satire. 

The Real Agatha, on the contrary, by 
Edith Huntington Mason, is almost pure 

comedy, verging at times 
"The upon clever farce. The 

Real mother of the real 

Agatha" Agatha was an English- 

woman of rank, whose 
second husband was an American mil- 
lionaire. The latter, foreseeing that his 
stepdaughter would be pursued by a 
swarm of impecunious fortune-hunters, 
makes a curious will, by the terms of 
which Agatha is to leave her American 
home and return to England, taking with 
her several other girls of her own age, 
up to the number of six ; that all of these 
girls are to be known and introduced 
as "The Honourable Agatha," and that 
all claimants for the real Agatha's hand 
are to be received for a visit of a strictly 
limited extent, during which they must 
make up their mind which of the Agathas 
is the real one, or, rather, which of the 
Agathas they love sufficiently to be in- 
different to the danger that she may 
prove to be the wrong Agatha. The 
story opens at a moment when two young 
Englishmen, knowing nothing about the 
existence of the six Agathas or of the 
extraordinary will, stumble upon them 
quite by accident, as a result of being 
left behind by their train at a wav sta- 
tion — and there is no other train till the 
next day. How they become candidates 
for the real Agatha's hand, just for the 
joke of the thing ; how the venture grad- 
ually becomes serious for one of the men, 
if not for both; and how every one is 
kept wildly guessing which, after all, 
really is the genuine Agatha — all this 
forms an exceedingly entertaining little 
book with which to while away a rainy 
afternoon. And while it would not be 
fair to give a clue which would help the 
reader to guess at the outset the identity 


of the real Agatha, it will do no harm 
to say that an application of the prin- 
ciple of the old nursery rhyme, "As I 

was going to St. Ives — " may prove of 
some assistance. 

Frederic Taber Cooper. 






*01d Buildings of New York City. With 
Some Notes Regarding Their Origin and 

A volume of photographs and descrip- 
tions of many old buildings of New 
York City. In the introduction we are 
told that it was with a view of preserv- 
ing the appearance of some of these 
landmarks that may be torn down any 
day that these pictures were taken and 
that endeavour has been made to pre- 
sent those that have been in existence 
about fifty years. 

C. A. Hack and Son: 

Stories of Old New Haven. By Ernest H. 
Baldwin, Ph.D. 

A history of the important and inter- 
esting events in the founding and growth 
of the famous old "City of Elms." It 
contains historical tales of adventure, 
romance and patriotism. The following 
are some of the chapters: "How the 
Founders of New Haven Built a City 
Four-Square," "How Momaugin Sold 
Quinnipiac," "How the Laws of Moses 
Became the Laws of New Haven," 
"How a Great Ship Sailed Out Through 
the Ice and Came Back in a Summer 
Cloud," "How New Haven Came to Be 
in the State of Connecticut," "How New 
Haven Became the Home of Yale Col- 
lege," "How New Haven Celebrated the 
Fourth of July in the Year 1779," "How 
New Haven Hid the Judges Who Con- 
demned a King to Death," and "How 
New Haven Defended the Mendi Men." 
The publishers state that while the book 
was written primarily for the entertain- 
ment, instruction and inspiration of the 
young, it is well adapted for school 
reading and has been adopted by the 
public schools of New Haven as sup- 
plementary reading. 

Little, Brown and Company: 

The Mongols. A History. By Jeremiah 
Curtin. With a Foreword by Theodore 

The late Jeremiah Curtin has traced 
the history of the Mongols from the 
early part of the thirteenth century, when 
Temudjin (known as Jenghis Khan), 
having forced himself to the front and 
having gained absolute control over the 
tribes of herdsmen, gathered them into 
vast armies and sallied forth to conquer 
central and eastern Asia, down to the 
early part of the fifteenth century, when 
the Mongols were expelled from China 
by the founders of the Ming dynasty, 
which event started the decadence of the 
Mongol Empire. Mr. Curtin has told of 
the conquests of Jenghis Khan and his 
successors, of their savage warfares, and 
how the influence and power of the 
Mongols spread. He has written of the 
cruelty of Jenghis Khan and of the 
strength of his armies, which was such 
that when they entered a city the in- 
habitants were powerless to resist; in 
cases where no resistance was made the 
invaders took their treasure and spared 
the lives of the people, but where re- 
sistance was offered the city was plun- 
dered of everything the cruel warriors 
had use for and the inhabitants were 
driven out of the city and put to death. 

Some Neglected Aspects of War. By Capt 
A. T. Mahan, U. S. N. 

To Captain Mahan' s article have been 
added two others— "The Power that 
Makes for Peace," by Henry S. Pritch- 
ett, and "The Capture of Private Prop- 
erty at Sea," by Julian Corbett These 
articles have already appeared in maga- 
zine form. The aim of the writers is to 
show that war plays a necessary and 
righteous part in modern civilisation and 
to demonstrate the impossibility of re- 
placing it by any other agency under 
conditions as they exist in the world at 
the present time. 

Longmans, Green and Company: 

Grant, Lincoln and the Freedmen. Reminis- 
cences of the Civil War. With Special 
Reference to the Work for the Contra- 
bands and Freedmen of the Mississippi 
Valley. By John Eaton, Ph.D., LL.D., in 
Collaboration with Ethel Osgood Mason. 

General Eaton writes of his work and 
experiences during the Civil War, when 
he took charge of the army of refugee 
negroes of the Freedmen' s Bureau, un- 



der instructions issued by Grant, Lin- 
coln and the War Department. He also 
tells of many political and educational 
interests in connection with his career 
as United States Commissioner of Edu- 
cation from 1870 to 1886. The work 
contains many anecdotes of Lincoln, 
Grant and other men of the period. 

The Outing Publishing Company: 

The Tragedy of Russia in Pacific Asia. By 
Frederick McCormick. Two volumes. 

An important work on the late war. 
The author was the Associated Press 
representative with the Russian army. 
He went through the war from begin- 
ning to end : heard the first shot fired at 
Port Arthur, and was on the firing line 
at the great battles of Mukden and Liao- 
yang. In these volumes he has given an 
account of the war, its causes and its 
lessons. Mr. McCormick made many 
sketches on the battle field which have 
been reproduced for this work. The 
volumes also contain photographs of 
troops in action, maps, etc. 

L. C. Page and Company: 

Castles and Chateaux of Old Navarre and 
the Basque Provinces. By Francis Mil- 
toun. Illustrated by Blanche MacManus. 

The journeyings outlined in this vol- 
ume skirt the slopes of the Pyrenees 
from the Atlantic Gulf of Gascony to 
the Mediterranean Gulf of Lyons and so 
on to the mouths of the Rhone, where 
they join on to the rambles in "Castles 
and Chateaux of Old Touraine" by the 
same writer and illustrator. The work 
is made up of history, romance and ad- 
venture. The author is intimate with 
the history and legendary lore of the 
chateaux described and he has uncovered 
new romances and presented fresh pic- 
tures of the life and customs of the peo- 
ple in these old provinces of France. 

The Pilgrim Press: 

The Peasantry of Palestine. The Life, Man- 
ners and Customs of the Village. By 
Elihu Grant, B.D., Ph.D. 

The author lived for nearly three 
years in Ram Allah, a village about ten 
miles north of Jerusalem, during which 
time he kept a journal of his experi- 
ences, and this he has now given to the 
?ublic in book form. He has written, 
rom his own observations, of such mat- 
ters as relate to the peasant life and 
interests. He tells of the family life, 
the marriages, the care of children, the 
houses in which the people live, what 
they eat and how they get it, the attire 
of the male and female, the division of 
labour between the sexes and between the 
different members of the household, the 
treatment of the sick, the blind, the in- 

sane, the leprous, funeral and mourning 
customs, the part which religion plays 
in the life of the people, and of many 
other items of interest. 

James Pott and Company: 

To-day in Palestine. By H. W. Dunning, 

Mr. Dunning has made a number of 
journeys through Palestine, often go- 
ing beyond the ordinary paths of travel, 
and this work is the result of his ob- 
servations. One of his purposes is to 
persuade the reader that a visit to Pales- 
tine is no longer a difficult matter. The 
author's point of view is that of the 
archaeologist rather than that of the 
Scripture student, and his journeys are 
illustrated with incidents of travel, re- 
marks on the manners and customs of 
the people, and historical explanations. 

G. P. Putnam's Sons: 

Through Italy with Car and Camera. By 
Dan Fellows Piatt. 

A book that will appeal to the art- 
lover and the motorist is to be found in 
Mr. Piatt's description of an extended 
automobile trip through Italy. The 
author's knowledge of Italy and Italy's 
art treasures is evidenced throughout 
the book, and he has woven with the 
story of the motor trip numerous remi- 
niscences of student days in Rome, of 
climbs in the Abruzzi, and of cycling 
trips to old Etruscan and Pelasgic sites. 
The volume contains two hundred illus- 

Old Paths and Legends of the New England 
Border. Connecticut, Deerfield, Berk- 
shire. By Katharine M. Abbott. 

The author here pictures for her 
readers the quaint by-ways of New Eng- 
land. She writes of historical spots of 
national interest and tells of the curious, 
out-of-the-way places, bringing in many 
Indian legends and some Yankee folk- 
lore. The volume contains about two- 
hundred illustrations. 

Cathedrals and Cloisters of Midland France. 
By Elise Whitlock Rose. With Illus- 
trations from Original Photographs by 
Vida Hunt Francis. Two volumes. 

The author and the illustrator have 
spent much time in wandering to- 
gether through "rare unspoiled France," 
where the tourist is practically un- 
known, and from their own observa- 
tions and photographs they have pre- 
pared this volume with its many views 
of the consecrated structures as they ap- 
pear to-day, together with their life 
story, with its drama and its glory of 
the days of old. The present work is 
devoted to the cathedrals and cloisters 
they met with in their wanderings- 



through the provinces of Burgundy, 
Savoy, Dauphine, Auvergne and 

Fleming H. Revell Company: 

China in Legend and Story. By C. Camp- 
bell Brown. 

The author's object in writing this 
book has been to show how the Chinese 
people live and think, first when they are 
heathens and afterward when they be- 
come Christians. He aims to give a real 
picture of the native mind and charac- 

The Continent of Opportunity. By Francis 
£. Clark. 

Early in 1907 Dr» Clark made a trip 
to South America extending over a 
period of five months. In the course of 
his journey he visited eight of the eleven 
republics of South America, met a 
number of the presidents and many 
government officials, dwelt at times in 
the homes of the presidents and had ex- 
ceptional opportunities to observe the 
people of all classes. The author's ob- 
ject here is to present a comprehensive 
view of the countries and peoples of 
South America, their history, their pos- 
sibilities, their chief resources, their in- 
tellectual and religious life, together 
with a traveller's impressions of pres- 
ent-day conditions. 

Charles Scribner's Sons: 

The Congo and Coasts of Africa. By Rich- 
ard Harding Davis, F.R.G.S. 

An account of Mr. Davis's travels in 
Africa last year. He gives a descrip- 
tion of the voyage along the coasts, with 
glimpses of missionaries and natives and 
the lives they lead, and throws light on 
the present discussion of the manner in 
which King Leopold of Belgium has 
conducted the government of the Congo. 
There is also an interesting chapter on 
"Americans in the Congo. 

Chile. Its History and Development, 
Natural Features. Products, Commerce 
and Present Conditions. By G. F. Scott 
Elliott M.A.. F.R.G.S. With an Intro- 
duction by Martin Hume. 

A history of the country is given with 
the various wars between the natives 
and Spaniards or among the Spaniards 
themselves, and also a description of the 
country as it is at the present time-^- 
geographically, commercially and politi- 
cally — with an account of the commer- 
cial prospects for the future. 

The Andes and the Amazon. Life and 
Travels in Peru. By C. Reginald Enock, 

The author has travelled extensively 
in the country and is familiar with the 
Peru of to-day and with her people. He 

gives here a detailed account of Peru 
from the historical, geographical and 
commercial viewpoints, in which he 
tells of his journeys in the country 
and furnishes descriptions of the land 
and of the people from his own observa- 


The Baker and Taylor Company: 

Memoirs of Mistral. Rendered into English 
by Constance Elisabeth Maud. 

The famous poet tells of his boyhood 
days on his father's farm in Provence, 
of his family and neighbours, of his 
schoolboy days, of his young manhood 
with his first aspirations and triumphs, 
and gives interesting incidents in con- 
nection with his friendship with such 
men as Daudet, De Musset, Millet and 

The Burrows Brothers Company: 

The Life and Correspondence of James Mc- 
Henry. By Bernard C. Steiner. 

A volume of interest both to the stu- 
dent of history and the general reader. 
It covers the life and career of Dr. Mc- 
Henry, who served through the Revolu- 
tion beside Washington and Lafayette, 
was a member of the Maryland Senate 
and of the Confederation Congress, sat 
in the Constitutional Convention of 
1787. was a member of both houses of 
the Maryland Legislature, and was Sec- 
retary of War from 1796 until his re- 
tirement to private life. The corre- 
spondence between Dr. McHenry and 
his friends, among whom were some of 
the greatest men of the period of the 
American Revolution, reveals the char- 
acter of the man and the affection felt 
for him bv such men as George Wash- 
ington. John Adams, Alexander Hamil- 
ton, Thomas Jefferson. Marquis de La- 
fayette, and many others. These letters 
also give a view of the life of the day 
and the relations existing between the 
men who formed the inner circle at 

Ginn and Company: 

Memorials of Thomas Davidson. The Wan- 
dering Scholar. Collected and Edited by 
William Knight. 

A volume of reminiscences con- 
tributed by such friends of Thomas 
Davidson's as William James, Havelock 
Ellis, Felix Adler, and also gathered by 
Mr. Knight from numerous other 

Houghton, Mifflin and Company: 

Abraham Lincoln. A Biographical Essay by 
Carl Schurz with an Essay on the Por- 
traits of Lincoln by Truman H. Bartlett 
Besides the brief biography of Lincoln 



the volume contains the essay on the 
Portraits of Lincoln, illustrated by 
eighteen reproductions in photogravure, 
a picture of the life mask and of a cast 
of Lincoln's remarkable hands; also the 
poems upon the mask and hands by 
Richard Watson Gilder and Edmund 
Clarence Stedman. 

John Lane Company: 

The Heart of Gambetta. By Francis Laur. 
Authorised Translation by Violette M. 
Montagu, with an Introduction by John 

Interwoven with the history of the life 
of this great French statesman is the 
romance of that life. Many of Gam- 
betta's letters to Leonie Leon appearing 
in this volume show his great love for 
her — the woman who inspired many of 
his actions and influenced him in his 
political career. 

/. B. Lippincott Company: 

The Last Days of Marie Antoinette. From 
the French of G. Lenotre. By Mrs. 
Rodolph Stawell. 

The terrible scenes that followed the 
captivity of the royal family are de- 
scribed here in the narratives of those 
men and women who were eye-witnesses 
of the last days of the famous French 

The Life and Public Services of George 
Luther Stearns. By Frank Preston 

An account of the life work of George 
Luther Stearns has been prepared by his 
son, partly from documentary evidence 
and partly from family traditions. The 
volume is largely devoted to his con- 
nection with those who were interested 
in the anti-slave movement and to the 
part he played in the reconstruction 
period following the war. 

The Macmillan Company: 

Leaves from the Note-Books of Lady Dor- 
othy Nevill. Edited by Ralph Nevill. 

The selection and arrangement of ma- 
terial from the scrap-books and note- 
books of Lady Dorothy Nevill was car- 
ried on by her son under her own super- 
vision. The volume contains many 
memories and observations extending 
over a long period of years and recounts 
personal experiences of her own or of 
some of the well-known people whom 
she met 

The Neale Publishing Company: 

J. E. B. Stuart (Major-General), Com- 
mander of the Cavalry Corps, Army of 

Northern Virginia, C. S. A. An Address. 
Delivered at the Unveiling of the Eques- 
trian Statue of General Stuart at Rich- 
mond, Virginia, May 30, 1907. By Theo- 
dore S. Garnett. His Aide-de-Camp. 

In dedicating the Stuart monument 
the Veteran Cavalry Association of the 
Army of Northern Virginia, through 
whose efforts the plan for erecting this 
equestrian statue was carried out, sought 
for a man peculiarly well fitted to speak 
of the great cavalryman, and their 
choice of Judge Garnett gave them a 
man who had known General Stuart in- 
timately and had enjoyed his confidence 
and friendship. He has spent many 
years studying General Stuart's military 
operations, and in this address, after 
briefly outlining the General's prepara- 
tion for the career upon which he en- 
tered in 1861, he traces his movements 
through the Civil War from the day he 
captured an entire company of the 
enemy's infantry near the Potomac to 
the hour of the fatal charge at Yellow 
Tavern when he received his death- 

Princess Pocahontas. By Mittie Owen Mc- 

Mrs. McDavid, being a Virginian and 
especially attracted to the life of the 
young Princess Pocahontas, has written 
the story of her career and her relation 
to the English colonists. 

Elisha Franklin Paxton, Brigadier-General, 

Composed of his letters from camp 
and field while an officer in the Con- 
federate army, with an introductory and 
connecting narrative collected and ar- 
ranged by his son, John Gallatin Paxton. 

G. P. Putnam's Sons: 

Henry Hudson. His Times and His Voy- 
ages. By Edgar Mayhew Bacon. 

In the series of American Men of 
Energy, being a study of the life and 
character of the explorer and an account 
of his voyages. The voyage which chief- 
ly interests the author is the third, or 
the one made in 1609 under the patron- 
age of the Dutch East India Company, 
and which finally resulted in his discov- 
ery of the river which has since been 
known by his name. 

Little Journeys to the Homes of Eminent 
Artists. By Elbert Hubbard. 

Short sketches of the lives of the fol- 
lowing eminent artists: Raphael, Botti- 
celli, Leonardo da Vinci, Thorwaldsen, 
Gainsborough, Velasquez, Corot, Cor- 
reggio, Paul Veronese, Cellini, and 





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4. Rosalind at Red Gate. Nicholson. (Bobbs- 

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5. The Fruit of the Tree. Wharton. (Scrib- 

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6. The Great Secret Oppenheim. (Little, 

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ton.) $1.50. 


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Page.) 90 cents. 


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3. The Lady of the Decoration. Little. (Cen- 

tury Co.) $1.00. 

4. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) $1.50. 

5. The Great Secret. Oppenheim. (Little, 

Brown.) $1.50. 
•6. The Broken Road. Mason. (Scribner.) 


1. The Lady of the Decoration. Little. (Cen- 

tury Co.) $1.00. 

2. The Shepherd of the Hills. Wright. (Book 

Supply Co.) $1.50. 
.3. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 

4. The Daughter of Anderson Crow. Mc- 

Cutcheon. (Dodd, Mead.) $1.50. 

5. The Fruit of the Tree. Wharton. (Scrib- 

ner.) $1.50. 
.6. My Lady Caprice. Farnol. (Dodd, Mead.) 


1. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) $1.50. 

2. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 

3. Arizona Nights. White. (McClure.) $1.50. 

4. Three Weeks. Glyn. (Duffield.) $1.50. 

5. The Lady of the Decoration. Little. (Cen- 

tury Co.) $1.00. 

6. Light-Fingered Gentry. Phillips. (Apple- 

ton.) $1.50. 


1. Three Weeks. Glyn. (Duffield.) $1.50. 

2. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 
j. The Great Secret. Oppenheim. (Little, 

Brown.) $1.50. 

4. The Road to Damascus. Keays. (Small, 

Maynard.) $1.50. 

5. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) $1.50. 

6. The Lady of the Decoration. Little. (Cen- 

tury Co.) $1.00. 


1. Rosalind at Red Gate. Nicholson. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 

2. Satan Sanderson. Rives. (Bobbs-Merrill.) 


3. The Fruit of the Tree. Wharton. (Scrib- 

ner.) $1.50. 

4. The Heart Line. Burgess. (Bobbs-Merrill.) 


5. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) $1.50. 

6. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 


1. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 

2. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) $1.50. 

3. The Lady of the Decoration. Little. (Cen- 

tury Co.) $1.00. 

4. Days Off. Van Dyke. (Scribner.) $1.50. 

5. The Shepherd of the Hilis. Wright (Book 

Supply Co.) $1.50. 

6. The Daughter of Anderson Crow. Mc- 

Cutcheon. (Dodd, Mead.) $1.50. 


1. Three Weeks. Glyn. (Duffield.) $1.50. 

2. Six-Cylinder Courtship. Field. (McBride.) 


3. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) $1.50. 

4. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 

5. The Lady of the Decoration. Little. (Cen- 

tury Co.) $1.00. 

6. Heart of the West. Henry. (McClure.) 



1. Rosalind at Red Gate. Nicholson. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 

2. The Great Secret. Oppenheim. (Little, 

Brown.) $1.50. 

3. Satan Sanderson. Rives. (Bobbs-Merrill.) 


4. Aunt Jane of Kentucky. Hall. (Little, 

Brown.) $1.50. 

5. The Lady of the Decoration. Little. (Cen- 

tury Co.) $1.00. 

6. The Shepherd of the Hills. Wright. (Book 

Supply Co. $1.50. 


1. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 

2. The Fruit of the Tree. Wharton. (Scrib- 

ner. ) $1.50. 

3. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) $1.50. 

4. The Ancient Law. Glasgow. (Doubleday, 

Page.) $1.50. 

5. The Lady of the Decoration. Little. (Cen- 

tury Co.) $1.00. 

6. Rosalind at Red Gate. Nicholson. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 




1. The Great Secret. Oppenheim. (Little, 

Brown.) $1.50. 

2. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 

3. The Fruit of the Tree. Wharton. (Scrib- 

ner.) $1.50. 

4. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) $1.50. 

5. Rosalind at Red Gate. Nicholson. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 

6. The Daughter of Anderson Crow. Mc- 

Cutcheon. (Dodd, Mead.) $1.50. 


1. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) $1.50. 

2. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 

3. Rosalind at Red Gate. Nicholson. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 

4. Satan Sanderson. Rives. (Bobbs-Merrill.) 


5. Beth Norvell. Parrish. (McClurg.) $1.50. 

6. Bud. Munro. (Harper.) $1.50. 


1. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) $1.50. 

2. The Great Secret. Oppenheim. (Little, 

Brown.) $1.50. 

3. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 

4. The Shepherd of the Hills. Wright. (Book 

Supply Co.) $1.50. 

5. Three Weeks. Glyn. (Duffield.) $1.50. 

6. Bud. Munro. (Harper.) $1.50. 


1. The Broken Road. Mason. (Scribner.) 


2. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 

3. Arethusa. Crawford. (Macmillan.) $1.50. 

4. Rosalind at Red Gate. Nicholson. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 

5. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) $1.50. 

6. The Lady of the Decoration. Little. (Cen- 

tury Co.) $1.00. 


1. Three Weeks. Glyn. (Duffield.) $1.50. 

2. Six-Cylinder Courtship. Field. (McBride.) 


3. The Morals of Marcus Ordeyne. Locke. 

(Lane.) $1.50. 

4. The Daughter of Anderson Crow. Mc- 

Cutcheon. (Dodd, Mead.) $1.50. 

5. Powers of Maxime. Williamson. (Empire 

Book Co.) $1.50. 

6. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 


1. The Fruit of the Tree. Wharton. (Scrib- 

ner.) $1.50. 

2. Rosalind at Red Gate. Nicholson. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 

3. The Helpmate. Sinclair. (Holt.) $1.50. 

4. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) $1.50. 

5. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50 

6. Love Is the Sum of it All. Eggleston. 

(Lothrop.) $1.50. 


' 1. Rosalind at Red Gate. Nicholson. (Bobbs- 
Merrill.) $1.50. 

2. Aunt Jane of Kentucky. Hall. (Little, 

Brown.) $1.50. 

3. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) $1.50. 

4. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 

5. The Angel of Forgiveness. Carey. (Lip- 

pincott.) $1.50. 

6. The Broken Road. Mason. (Scribner.) $1.50. 


1. Three Weeks. Glyn. (Duffield.) $1.50. 

2. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) $1.50. 

3. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 

4. Aunt Jane of Kentucky. Hall. (Little, 

Brown.) $1.50. 

5. The Lady of the Decoration. Little. (Cen- 

tury Co.) $1.00. 

6. The Shepherd of the Hills. Wright. 

(Book Supply Co.) $1.50. 


1. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 

2. Three Weeks. Glyn. (Duffield.) $1.50. 

3. Rosalind at Red Gate. Nicholson. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 

4. The Brass Bowl. Vance. (Bobbs-Merrill ) 


5. Satan Sanderson. Rives. (Bobbs-Merrill.) 


6. The Daughter of Anderson Crow. Mc- 

Cutcheon. (Dodd, Mead.) $1.50. 


1. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) $1.50. 

2. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 

3. Ihe Old Peabody Pew. Wiggin. (Hough- 

ton, Mifflin.) $1.50. 

4. The Great Secret. Oppenheim. (Little, 

Brown.) $1.50. 

5. The Lady of the Decoration. Little. (Cen- 

tury Co.) $1.00. 

6. Days Off. Van Dyke. (Scribner.) $1.50. 


1. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 

2. Three Weeks. Glyn. (Duffield.) $1.50. 

3. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) $1.50. 

4. The Lady of the Decoration. Little. (Cen- 

tury Co.) $1.00. 

5. The Brass Bowl. Vance. (Bobbs-Merrill.) 

6. Satan Sanderson. Rives. (Bobbs-Merrill.) 



1. Three Weeks. Glyn. (Duffield.) $1.50. 

2. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) $1.50. 

3. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 

4. The Great Secret. Oppenheim. (Little, 

Brown.) $1.50. 

5. The Ancient Law. Glasgow. (Doubleday, 

Page.) $1.50. 

6. Arizona Nights. White. (McClure.) $1.50. 




1. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. ■ 

2. The Lady of the Decoration. Little. (Cen- 

tury Co.) $1.00. 

3. Wailed In. Phelps. (Harper.) $1.50. 

4. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) $1.50. 

5. The Fruit of the Tree. Wharton. (Scrib- 

ner.) $1.50. 

6. The Great Secret. Oppenheim. (Little, 

Brown.) $1.50. 


1. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) $1.50. 

2. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 

3. The Fruit of the Tree. Wharton. (Scrib- 

ner.) $1.50. 

4. Three Weeks. Glyn. (Duffield.) $1.50. 

5. Rosalind at Red Gate. Nicholson. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50.! 

6. Days Off. Van Dyke. (Scribner.) $1.50. 


1. The Lady of the Decoration. Little. (Cen- 

tury Co.) $1.00. 

2. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 

3. The Shepherd of the Hills. Wright. (Book 

Supply Co.) $1.50. 

4. Satan Sanderson. Rives. (Bobbs-Merrill.) 


5. The Old Peabody Pew. Wiggin. (Hough- 

ton, Mifflin.) $1.50. 

6. Days Off. Van Dyke. (Scribner.) $1.50. 


1. Three Weeks. Glyn. (Duffield.) $1.50. 

2. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) $1.50. 

3. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 

4. The Heart Line. Burgess. (Bobbs-Mer- 

rill.) $1.50. 

5. The California Earthquake. Jordan. (Rob- 

ertson.) $3.50. 

6. Testimony of the Suns. Sterling. (Robert- 

son.) $1.25. 


1. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 

2. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) $1.50. 

3. The Lady of the Decoration. Little. (Cen- 

tury Co.) $1.00. 

4. Satan Sanderson. Rives. (Bobbs-Merrill.) 


5. The Daughter of Anderson Crow. Mc- 

Cutchcon. (Dodd, Mead.) $1.50. 

6. Arizona Nights. White. (McClure.) $1.50. 


1. Three Weeks. Glyn. (Duffield.) $1.50. 

2. The Shuttle. Burnett (Stokes.) $1.50. 

3. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 

4. Beth Norvell. Parrish. (McClurg.) $1.50. 

5. Satan Sanderson. Rives. (Bobbs-Merrill.) 


6. The Broken Road. Mason. (Scribner.) 



1. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 

2. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) $1.50. 

3. The Daughter of Anderson Crow. Mc- 

Cutcheon. (Dodd, Mead.) $1.50. 

4. The Lady of the Decoration. Little. (Cen- 

tury Co.) $1.00. 

5. Satan Sanderson. Rives. (Bobbs-Merrill.) 


6. Aunt Jane of Kentucky. Hall. (Little, 

Brown.) $1.50. 


1. Three Weeks. Glyn. (Duffield.) $1.50. 

2. The Lady of the Decoration. Little. (Cen- 

tury Co.) $1.00. 

3. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) $1.50. 

4. The Broken Road. Mason. (Scribner.) 


5. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 

6. Rosalind at Red Gate. Nicholson. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 


1. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) $1.50. 

2. Deborah of Tod's. De la Pasture. (Dutton.) 


3. The Broken Road. Mason. (Scribner.) 


4. Ancestors. Atherton. (Harper.) $1.75. 

5. The Altar Fire. Benson. (Putnam.) $1.50. 

6. Walled In. Phelps. (Harper.) $1.50. 

From the above list the six best selling 
books are selected according to the following 
system : 


A book standing 1st on any list receives 10 






According to the foregoing lists, the six 
books which have sold best in the order of de- 
mand during the month are: 

1. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) $1.50285 

2. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50 284 

3. The Lady of the Decoration. Little. 

(Century Co.) $1.00 139 

4. Three Weeks. Glyn. (Duffield.) $1.50. 137 

5. Rosalind at Red Gate. Nicholson. 

(Bobbs-Merrill.) $1.50. 120 

6. The Great Secret Oppenheim. (Little, 

Brown.) $1.50 87 


























VOL. XXVII. PRICE 25°. $ PE.R YEAR. No. 2 


univ . ot- Mien. 

yNiv . ot- «i*CJ 


- . " J*ii*\ 







A Magazine of Literature and Life 

APRIL, i 908 


We have always supposed that Conan 
Doyle derived his general theory of 

scientific detection from 
The Ultimate the reading of Poe, and 
Source of that Poe had taken his 

Sherlock Holmes notions of deduction 

from the interesting 
story in Voltaire's Zadig which tells how 
Zadig described to the king's chief hunts- 
man all the peculiarities of a horse and a 
dog which he had never himself seen, his 
description being based upon the same 
method of reasoning which so interests 
us in The Murders in the Rue Morgue 
and in the Sherlock Holmes story-cycle. 
Poe was, of course, familiar with Voltaire, 
and doubtless got his original suggestion 
from the work of that ingenious author. 
This theory we still hold to be true so 
far as Poe and Conan Doyle are con- 
cerned. But the interesting question 
arises: whence did Voltaire derive his 
hint? This question has been very satis- 
factorily answered by Mr. Leon Fraser 
in a short but interesting paper which he 
contributed to Modern Language Notes 
more than a year ago. In this paper he 
points out that Voltaire's story is not very 
different in form from one contained in 
a book by the Chevalier de Mailly, en- 
titled Voyage et Aventures des Trots 
Princes de Sarendip, which appeared in 
1 7 19, or twenty-eight years earlier than 
Zadig. * 

Mr. Fraser summarises De Mailly's 
version as follows : 

The three princes starting out on their jour- 
ney encounter a camel-driver, who has lost one 

of his herd. They have noticed the tracks of 
such an animal, though not seen him. and when 
asked by the driver if they know of his where- 
abouts, the eldest replies, "Was he not blind?" 
the second, "Did he not have a tooth out?" the 
third, "Was he not lame?" The camel-driver 
assents with delight to the questions and con- 
tinues on his way rejoicing. Not finding his 
camel, however, he returns and accuses them 
of bantering with him. "To prove that what 
we say is so," said the eldest, "your camel 
carried butter on one side and honey on 1 the 
other." The second, "And a lady rode the 
camel," etc. In the same manner they are* 
arrested for theft and sentenced. And in the 
same manner the camel is re-found and an ex- • 
planation is given: "I judged that the camel 
was blind because I noticed that on one sid<{> 
of the road all the grass was gnawed down*-' 
while the other side, which was far bettefr*" 
was untouched. Therefore, I inferred that hfc- 
had but one eye, else he would not have left the • 
good to eat the poor grass." "I found in the : 
road mouthfuls of half-chewed herbage the' 
size of a tooth of just such an animal," etc. : 

De Mailly's book professes to have 
been translated from the Persian ; but this 
only helps Mr. Fraser to demonstrate; 
that De Mailly was nothing but a copy- 
ist who transcribed the tale from a book 
by an Italian writer,, Christoforo Armeno, 
printed at Venice in 1557. Of it there are. 
only three copies now known to be in ex- 
istence; but it was translated into Ger- 
man, French, Dutch, Danish, and finally 7 
even into English, twenty-four years be-' 
fore Voltaire wrote Zadig. Armeno's 



work by its very title shows it to be the 
source upon which De Mailly drew so 
freely. It is called Peregrinaggio di tre 
giovanni figliovoli del re di Sarendippo, 
and it also professes to have been trans- 
lated from the Persian. Mr. Fraser re- 
marks that the episode of the lost camel 
is, indeed, Oriental in its origin, being 
found in nearly all the Eastern languages 
with only slight variations, and that it 
probably first appears in the Babylonian 
Talmud (about 200 a. d.). We cannot 
here follow out all of Mr. Fraser's clues, 
but we recommend those who are inter- 
ested in literary genealogy to look up his 
paper which will be found in Modem 
Language Notes for December, 1906. 
Though brief, it is an important contribu- 
tion to the study of sources, and we wish 
that it could have appeared in The Book- 
man instead of in a publication intended 
only for specialists, and therefore, not 
likely to be seen and read by a larger 
public. g. 

If any one desires to study some pecu- 
liar phases of the Gallic temperament, let 

him read a book which 
"The has just been translated 

Heart of from the French of M. 

Gambetta" Francis Laur, and en- 

titled The Heart of Gam- 
betta. It displays a certain sort of French- 
man at his very worst — maudlin, theatri- 
cal, and positively sloppy in the senti- 
mental mush which he regards as fine 
and soulful. Did the book not deal with 
an historical personage, it would seem 
beneath contempt. As it stands, however, 
it is, in its way, a feeble contribution to 
our knowledge of a man who for more 
than a decade was the most conspicuous 
person in the French Republic. One must 
concede to Leon Gambetta a certain 
amount of power. When the Empire fell 
in 1871, Gambetta organised a spirited 
resistance to the Germans. Escaping from 
beleaguered Paris in a balloon, he at- 
tempted the impossible. He raised 
armies. He called upon the nation to rise 
en masse. He displayed wonderful energy 
in the face of continual disaster. Fate 
was against him, however, and France 
was beaten to the earth. After that time, 
Gambetta's arena of activity was the 
Chamber of Deputies, which he domi- 

nated until his final fall, which he thor- 
oughly deserved, and which was soon 
after followed by his death, regarding 
which mysterious tales were told. 

This Judaeo-Italian Frenchman was a 
true meridional. His type is almost cruelly 
delineated by Daudet in Numa Roumes- 
tan. Some sentences of Daudet pere, pre- 
served by M. Leon Daudet, are fairly ap- 
plicable to Gambetta and his kind: "A 
morality as loose as one's belt. Torrents 
of faults, talk as facile as their im- 
pulses and their promises. Alas, for 
the lofty comedies ! What breasts smit- 
ten by the hand, what low emotional 
voices, hoarse but captivating, what easy 
tears are theirs! What adjurations and 
calls upon patriotism and lofty senti- 
ments!" Gambetta had to be reckoned 
with, but he was, none the less, a Numa 
Roumestan — a miracle of ill-breeding, 
of bad manners, hawking and spitting, 
and with a score more of unpleasant 
personal traits. His eloquence seemed 
magnificent to a certain type of French- 
man. It would have been intolerable 
to any but men of a Southern race. 
Because of his preoccupation with polit- 
ical intrigue in 1880, he allowed Egypt 
to slip into the practical possession of the 
English, and made his countrymen ap- 
pear timid and almost chicken-hearted. 
In a large way the two guiding principles 
which made up his policy were revenge 
on Germany and a dissolution of the Con- 
cordat. ^ 

This book of M. Laur is written to 
prove that Gambetta's public life was 
largely influenced by a woman with 
whom his acquaintance began in 1869 and 
ended only with his death in 1882. There 
is so much rant and rhetoric in the book 
that it is rather difficult to disentangle 
the thread of narrative which runs 
through it. It appears, however, that in 
1869, while Gambetta was making an im- 
passioned speech in the Corps Legislatif, 
he noticed in the gallery a young woman, 
tall, and beautiful with a somewhat severe 
type of beauty. As he concluded his 
speech, his eyes met hers. He "hastily 
scribbles a note, puts it into an envelope, 
points out the black-gloved lady to one of 



the officials, and then awaits his fate." 
Later, the two meet by appointment in the 
park at Versailles. They exchange the- 
atric talk. She tells Gambetta "the story 
of her life." The daughter of a French 
colonel who had committed suicide, she, 
at the age of eighteen, had been ruined by 
an official of the Ministry. The name by 
which she goes is Madame Leonie Leon. 
She becomes to Gambetta what Madame 
Hanska became to Balzac. Indeed, the 
parallel is a fairly close one. Gambetta 
loved her wildly. She loved him tepidly ; 
but she was fascinated by the thought 
that she could control and influence so 
conspicuous a man. Her affection for 
him was chiefly from the head and very 
little from the heart. This is seen in the 
letters published by M. Laur. Gam- 
betta's are the outpouring of a passionate 
nature. Hers are meagre, unemotional, 
and almost chilly. There seems to be no 

doubt, however, that she really did share 
all his confidences, and that he often 
sought her counsel even when he did not 
follow it. In the original French, M. 
Laur tells a cock-and-bull story of how 
Gambetta had a secret meeting with Bis- 
marck at Madame Leon's request. This 
story was promptly exploded by French 
historical annalists. and in the English edi- 
tion it is denied. There can be no doubt, 
however, that Gambetta did contemplate 
such a meeting and had actually arranged 
for it, but that at the last moment he gave 
up the scheme, which would of course 
have resulted in nothing tangible. The 
glimpse of Bismarck, however, which is 
given in the book is thoroughly convinc- 

An intermediary, M. Cheberry, went 
to Bismarck in 1878 and spoke to the 


Chancellor about Gambetta in terms of 
eulogy. Bismarck interrupted him im- 
patiently. "I know, I know." said Bis- 
. marck. "He is the only one among 1 you 
who thinks of revenge and who is at all 
a menace to Germany. But he won't 
last much longer." M. Cheberry was 
astounded at this saying, and declared 
that Gambetta was the very picture of 
strength and health. Then Bismarck went 
on in his rough way : 

"I am not speaking thoughtlessly. I know 
by secret report exactly what sort of a life 
your great man leads, and I know his habits 
well! His life is a life of continual over- 
work. . . . All politicians who have led the 
same life have died young. Your Mirabeau is 
the most celebrated example. To be able to serve 
one's country for a long time, one must marry 
an ugly woman, have children like the rest of 
the world, a country place or a house to one's 
self, like any common peasant, where one can 

: one's cold, wait calmly for 
ion, and hide one's self from 
the bores and the rulers of the day. Your 
Gambetta is burning the candle at both ends. 
That is my opinion. He had much better marry 
and go and settle in the country. Tell him 
that from me, for, after all, I rather like him. 
. . . So, as one man to another, I personally 
recommend him the practical advice which 
Princess Bismarck would also give him, like 
the good housewife that she is." 

Some time afterwards, came Gambetta's 
political downfall. His enemies combined 
to overthrow him. He was only forty- 
four years of age, yet already he was very 
grey and stout, and, like Napoleon, was 
old before his time. So he and Madame 
Leon decided to buy Balzac's former 
house and grounds, called Les Jardies, to 
marry, and to live there in peace. But 
the price of the estate was too high for 
Gambetta's purse. Thereupon he bought 
for 12,000 francs a ramshackle little cot- 


ir o£ The Bitter Cry "/ '** 



tage which had been occupied by Balzac's 
secretary. To this place Gambetta and 
Madame Leon presently repaired, and 
busied themselves in making it more 
habitable. One day the news reached 
Paris that the former great man had been 
shot in the hand by a pistol. This news 
was soon followed by that of his illness 
and death on the last day of 1882. The 
scandal-mongers of the Parisian press de- 
clared that Madame Leon had shot him 
in a fit of jealousy. For many years this 
story was implicitly believed by the public 
at large. M. Laur now gives the evidence 

which shows that the pistol-shot had 
nothing to do with his death, which was 
caused by appendicitis and by the timidity 
of too many physicians, there being nine 
in all. The pistol wound was purely 
accidental, owing to Gambetta 's careless- 
ness in cleaning .* weapon with which he 
had previously fought a duel and which 
he handled under the belief that it was 
unloaded. After his death, the woman 
who in a few days more would have been 
his wife, vanished from the public view. 

It may be asked why the two had not 




been married long before. The reason of the Church could restore her purity of 

sprang from the difference in their be- soul. Gambetta, on the other hand, was 

liefs. The woman was a sincere Catholic, an enemy of the Church, a free thinker, 

and having been disgraced before she met an atheist. To Leonie Leon, a civil mar- 

Gambetta, she felt that only the blessing riage was not only no marriage at all 


but was an act of sin. To Gambetta, a 
religious marriage seemed a mockery, 
and would also have brought on him the 
jeers of his associates. But he had ex- 
torted a promise from his mistress that 
if he were ever defeated, ill, and in need 
of comfort, she would forego her con- 
victions and be married to him by a civil 
ceremony. When he fell from power, he 
claimed the fulfilment of this promise; 
and she consented to their union. Death 
stepped in and parted the woman from 
this man who had, for her sake, once re- 
fused the presidency of the French Re- 
public. The story in itself has elements 
of dignity and pathos. It is turned into 
a ridiculous, gushy bit of false sentiment 
by the ingenious M. Francis Laur. On 
the whole, it will recall the volume pub- 
lished several years ago regarding Victor 
Hugo and Madame Juliette Drouet. In 
any other country than France, neither 
book would probably have been written. 
Certainly, neither would have been pub- 
lished until after the lapse of very many 

Arthur Stringer, the author of The 
Under Groove, is one of the younger 
school of Canadian lit- 
erary workers who have 
made their home in New 
York. Yet he could 
scarcely be called a New 
s he spends the summer months 
on his fruit- farm in Canada and each win- 
ter plans a trip into some one of the re- 
moter corners of the world. Last year 
his wanderings took him into Central 
and South America. The year before 
his pilgrimage was to Morocco, following 
a still earlier journey up among the In- 
dians of the Canadian Northwest. Mr. 
Stringer, who is thirty-three years old 
and the son of a Great-Lakes ship-cap- 
tain, was educated at Wycliffe College 
and the University of Toronto. After 
his graduation from Toronto he studied 
at Oxford and spent a year on the Conti- 
nent. During all this time he was writ- 
ing occasional verse. But a new turn 
was given his career when he entered 
journalism, as a member of the Montreal 
Herald staff. After one year of news- 
paper work he felt the attraction of New 
York and promptly migrated to the 


Yorker, ; 

Mecca of American literary men. One 
year later The Loom of Destiny, his 
first prose volume, appeared. This, how- 
ever, was not his initial appearance in 
print, as no less than three volumes of 
poems had already been printed in 
Canada and a number of his verses had 
found their way into American maga- 
zines. Then came his first dramatic vol- 
ume. Hefiluestus, which was published 
in England. This was followed by a 
novel of New York life, The Silver 
Poppy, and Lonely O'M alley. Then ap- 
peared The Wire Tappers, which was 
quickly followed by Phantom Wires, in 
which a new phase of the author's devel- 
opment was clearly shown. Last year 
Mr. Stringer returned to verse by the 
publication of The Woman in the Rain. 

Readers of that most worthv organ 
Socialism in ° f , B "' tiri ' respect ahility, 
Literature "' Spectator, must have 

noticed with what fre- 
quency the appeal has of late appeared in 



its columns for all decent mento bury their 
political differences and unite against the 
common enemy — Socialism. One may 
view the alarm of The Spectator with 
sympathetic concern or with wicked glee, 
according to one's sociological predilec- 

tions; but there is no doubt of the fact 
by which it is inspired. Socialism is in- 
deed so much in the air that it is be- 
coming the topic of discussion not only 
in political circles, but also in the high- 
ways of literature. The editor of The 




Spectator himself, Mr. J. St. Loe Strachey, 
has condescended to combat the peril in 
a series of ponderous Letters to a Work- 
ingman — a task which has been much 
more ably performed by Professor Gold- 
win Smith in America, and by Mr. W. H. 
Mallock in England. It is true that the 
apprehension seems to be livelier in Eng- 
land than in this country, but it is doubt- 
ful if the peril, real or imaginary, is any 
greater across the water than here. It 
may be only a coincidence that Mr. Mal- 
lock crossed the Atlantic to deliver in this 
country the lectures on which his anti- 
socialistic book was based, while one of 
the most prominent and perhaps the 
most scholarly of American socialists, 
Mr. John Graham Brooks, has just gone 
to England to preach the new gospel in 
a series of lectures at Oxford. 

At the moment the literary manifesta- 
tions of socialism are indeed rather as- 
tonishing. In its most radical form it ap- 
pears as the inspiration of two novels 
published within a fortnight of each 
other. Whatever one may think of Mr. 
Jack London's The Iron Heel and Mr. 
Upton Sinclair's The Metropolis as mere 
literature, they must unquestionably be 
taken as signs of the times. Within the 
month have also appeared two more sober 
and serious efforts to explain what social- 
ism is — Mr. H. G. Wells's New Worlds 
for Old and Mr. Robert Hunter's The 
Socialists at Work. Mr. Hunter's book 
is particularly welcome to those who have 
only the vaguest ideas as to what the so- 
cialists are actually doing in various 
European countries. Perhaps most as- 
tonishing of all is the extent to which 
recent religious and theological literature 
is tinged with socialism. Two of the 
most talked-of books of the season in this 
field are by avowed socialists — Professor 
Walter Rauschenbusch's Christianity and 
the Social Crisis, and the Rev. R. J. 
Campbell's Christianity and the Social 
Order. And such titles as The Church 
and the Changing Order (Shailer Ma- 
thews) and Jesus Christ and the Civilisa- 
tion of To-day (Professor J. A. Leigh- 
ton), whether the books are actually so- 
cialistic in their teaching or not, show the 
same consciousness of the problems which 


are conveniently focused under the label 
of socialism. 

Among all those books dealing with 
socialism from so many points of view, 

the one that stands out 
in most direct and noisy 
challenge, and which will 
unquestionably attract by 
far the widest attention, is 
Mr. Upton Sinclair's The Metropolis. No 
matter what opinion one may have of the 
man's work and his sincerity the time has 
come when a book by Mr. Sinclair cannot 
possibly be ignored. You may, and very 
probably will, find The Metropolis ridicu- 
lous in the extreme. You may deplore its 
execrable taste, its vulgarities, and its 
gross exaggeration ; but if you begin it 
at all you are almost certain to read it to 
the end, and to lay it aside with the mental 
acknowledgment of a real, if an ill-di- 
rected power. A very great man who 
wrote immortal books about those who 
lived in exalted places has been accused 
of an undignified overconsciousness of, 
an irritation against, the flunkey who 
waited behind his chair at table. "This 
trait in Thackeray," wrote Walter Bage- 
hot, "was by no means evidence of the 
loftiest courtesy and breeding." It is a 
very far cry from the author of Vanity 
Fair to the author of The Metropolis. Yet 
in Mr. Sinclair's work may be detected 
something of the same intense overcon- 
sciousness. Only it is the overconscious- 
ness of the man behind the chair. 

The Metropolis is less a story than a 
series of scenes. To give these scenes 
continuity and to weld them into a narra- 
tive Mr. Sinclair introduces a lay figure 
whom he names Allan Montague. Mon- 
tague is a lawyer from the South, thirty 
years of age, who goes to New York tak- 
ing with him his mother and his cousin 
Alice, and the ideals about honour among 
men, and between man and woman, that 
are to be shattered, of course, by his ex- 
periences among the iniquities of The 
Metropolis. A brother, Oliver, four or 
five years Allan's junior, has preceded 
him, and being of a less sensitive nature, 
has climbed right into the innermost 



circle of New York society, hobnobs with 
multi-millionaires, and has grown so lost 
to shame that he actually seems to enjoy 
it. He it is who welcomes Allan to New 
York, conducts him to a modest apart- 
ment the rental of which is a mere 
$600 a week, and throughout the four 
hundred pages of the book endeavours to 
reconcile him to Mammon and un- 
righteousness. Of course Oliver, despite 
his worldliness, is just as much of a 
marionette as Allan, or as Mrs. Montague 
and Alice. But that makes no difference 
whatever. They serve Mr. Sinclair's pur- 
pose and with their eyes the reader may 
witness some very extraordinary phases 
of high and low life in the great city. 

If all the scenes of The Metropolis 
were of the quality of the one with which 
the story opens Mr. Sinclair's book might 
make something less of a sensation, but 
it would have far greater claims to our 
admiration and respect. This first scene 
describes a reunion of the Loyal Legion, 
and in reading it one remembers the Up- 
ton Sinclair of the best parts of Manassas 
and forgets the unsavoury flavour of The 
Jungle and the silly blasphemy of The 
Journal of Arthur Sterling. The picture 
of the old colonel reading his paper "Rec- 
ollections of Spottsylvania" while his fel- 
low-soldiers sit about, leaning forward in 
their chairs, with hands clasped and teeth 
set, and finally breaking forth spontane- 
ously into the inspiring "Battle Hymn of 
the Republic" is a very vivid one. But 
Mr. Sinclair is not content to keep long 
upon this level. A few pages later Mon- 
tague's real initiation comes when his 
brother whirls him out to Long Island in 
an automobile at an incredible rate of 
speed and introduces him to a topsy-turvy 

It began with ice-cream, moulded in fancy 
shapes and then buried in white of egg and 
baked brown. Then there was a turtle soup, 
thick and green and greasy; and then — horror 
of horrors — a great steaming plum-pudding. 
It was served in a strange phenomenon of a 
platter, with six long, silver legs ; and the waiter 
set it in front of Robbie Walling and lifted the 
cover with a sweeping gesture — and then re- 
moved it and served it himself. Montague had 
about made up his mind that this was the end, 

and began to fill up on bread and butter, when 
there appeared cold asparagus, served in indi- 
vidual silver holders resembling andirons. 
Then — appetite now being sufficiently whetted 
— there came quail, in piping hot little casse- 
roles; and then half a grape-fruit set in a block 
of ice and filled with wine; and then litle squab 
ducklings, bursting fat, and an artichoke; and 
then a cafi parfait; and then — as if to crown 
the audacity — huge thick slices of roast beef ! 


Montague is now embarked on a career 
in real society, and needless to say his 
sensations come thick and fast. From 
the topsy-turvy luncheon he is taken to a 
certain "shooting lodge." As the car 
approaches the estate he perceives with 
admiration a palace but is informed that 
that is only the gatekeeper's lodge. The 
house itself utterly baffles our own pow- 
ers of description, so on this point we 
refer our readers to Mr. Sinclair. After 
a dinner prepared by the Robbie Wait- 
ings ten-thousand-dollar chef there is 
bridge whist played for fabulous stakes, 
the consuming of wines of "priceless 
vintage" and innumerable highballs by 
the "Birdies" and "Vivies" and "Carries" 
as well as the "Ollies" and Chappies. In 
former days we used to find huge amuse- 
ment in those heroes of Mr. Howells's 
novels — Bartley Hubbard, for instance — 
who were so delicately constituted that 
two or three mild hot Scotches reduced 
them to a shocking state of inebriety. 
These society persons of Mr. Sinclair's 
pages are of sterner stuff. The daintiest 
of the young women of The Metropolis 
is capable of tossing off of an evening a 
dozen or eighteen whiskey and sodas, not 
to mention a few benedictines, curagoas 
and fine champagnes, without turning a 
hair. ^ 

Next we find Montague sitting at an 
informal dinner party, the guest of Mrs. 
Winnie Duval, the young widow who had 
recently married the founder of the great 
banking house of Duval and Co. Major 
Arthur Pendennis used to try to impress 
upon his nephew the vast importance of 
carefully studying his Peerage and keep- 
ing closely in touch with who was related 
to who, pointing out as an awful example 
the disastrous experience of a certain 
young suckling. That Montague has had 


ia 3 

no such careful social mentor is apparent 
from the following bit of dinner-table 
dialogue. He has taken in a certain Mrs. 
Alden, a matron of fifty, who divides her 
time between him and a decanter of 
Scotch whiskey, not without showing con- 
siderable partiality for the decanter, and 
is struggling to make conversation. 

"Do you know Mr. Charlie Mason?" he 
asked ? 

"Quite well," said the other placidly. "I 
used to be a Mason myself, you know." 

"Oh," said Montague, taken aback ; and then 
added: "Before you were married?" 

"No," said Mrs. Alden, more placidly than 
ever; "before I was divorced." 


There is a successful and estimable 
American gentleman of letters whose re- 
markable versatility is generally attrib- 
uted to his cleverness and discrimination 
as a collector of clippings. He is said to 
have about a hundred envelopes, each 
marked with the title of a proposed ar- 
ticle, and into these envelopes he indus- 
triously pops the proceeds of his careful 
reading and scissoring of the newspapers. 
When one of the envelopes reaches a cer- 
tain bulk he takes it out and constructs 
his article. In writing The Metropolis — 
despite the weird yarn which appeared in 
the press a few months ago to the effect 
that he obtained employment as a servant 
in a very wealthy family for the purpose 
of gathering material — this seems to 
have been altogether Mr. Sinclair's 
method. To do him justice it must be 
said that his envelope was a very plump 
one. Everything went into it — every sen- 
sational exaggeration from the yellow 
journals, every innuendo of the society 
sheet which Mr. Sinclair characterises as 
"used mainly as a means of blackmail" ; 
every scandal whispered over a bar or in 
a greenroom. The last half of the book 
contains what is practically a complete 
list of all the evil stories whispered about 
men of financial prominence in New 
York during the last half dozen years 
and to any reader of the newspapers Mr. 
Sinclair makes it pretty clear whom he 
has in mind. Nor in his description of 
the persons who play major parts in the 
narrative does he show any more dis- 
cretion. There is for instance Reggie 

Mann, "of slender little figure and minc- 
ing gait, and the delicate hands and soft 
voice of a woman." Reggie, we are fur- 
ther told, "wore a gold bracelet upon one 
arm" and painted his face in a matter-of- 
fact way. Then there is Freddie Van- 
dam, a high official of the great Fidelity 
Life Insurance Company. Freddie is de- 
scribed as "a man of fashion, with all the 
exaggerated and farcical mannerisms of 
the dandy of the comic papers. He wore 
a conspicuous and foppish and posed 
with a little cane ; he cultivated a waving 
pompadour and his silky mustache and 
beard were carefully trimmed to points 
and kept sharp by his active fingers. 
His conversation was full of French 
phrases and French opinions ; he had been 
reared abroad, and had a whole-souled 
contempt for all things American — even 
dictating his business letters in French, 
and leaving it for his stenographer to 
translate them. His shirts were em- 
broidered with violets and perfumed with 
violets." Nor will one require any hint 
as to the identity of Mrs. Devon, for 
twenty-five years the undisputed mistress 
of New York society, whose ancestor of 
one hundred and fifty years ago had come 
to America, made money in furs, and in- 
vested his savings in lands on Manhattan 
Island; or of Siegfried Harvey, the fa- 
mous cross-country rider and polo man, 
who had been named after a race horse ; 
or of Jim Hegan, the big railroad king 
who was engaged in building a great 
mansion on the top of a mountain across 
the Hudson ; or of the Robert Wallings 
or of the Havens, or of Judge Ellis with 
his after dinner stories and his hypo- 
critical suavity. It has been said of The 
Metropolis that to appraise it properly one 
should not be a New Yorker. But why 
so ? Certainly in any village of the mid- 
dle west there will be found a score of 
readers of newspapers perfectly able to 
construct an adequate and accurate key. 

Two yea s ago, when Mr. Upton Sin- 
clair's The Jungle was attracting wide- 
spread attention, and 
other books in the run- 
ning of a somewhat sen- 
sational nature were 
works by Mr. Dixon, Mr. 
London and Maxim Gorky, Mr. Wallace 

The Literary 





Irwin wrote for these pages some verses 
entitled "The Literary Horrors Club." 
These verses to our mind were so good 
that they would bear reprinting at any 
time, and they certainly should be re- 
called at the present time in view of the 
appearance of Mr. Sinclair's The Me- 
tropolis. In that book there should be 
at least half a dozen more verses of a 
similar nature for Mr. Irwin. 


I have no literary style, 

I am no diplomat; 
But those who read The Clansman know 

I'm not alone in that, 
And those who read The Jungle know 

How one succeeds who hooks 
The sweepings from the slaughter-house 

And turns it into books. 

'Twas in a literary fog 

Beside an inky wave. 
Some rather handsome skeletons 

Were waltzing on a grave; 
A very pretty lynching, too, 

Gave zest to the affair, 
When Jack o' London, stalking in, 

Cried thrice, "Ahoy, Sinclair !" 


Then Upton came from Packingtown, 

As gay as one can be 
Whose progress is accompanied 

By Reverend Thomas D., 
The latter striking attitudes 

And braying at the moon 
While flourishing a manuscript 

Entitled "Coon, Coon, Coon!" 




This is me weekly masterpiece!" 

The Reverend Thomas yelled, 
Though most of it is short on facts 

And some of it's misspelled — 
Yet who'll deny this portraiture 

Of Dixie's golden age 
With forty horrors to the word, 

Three murders to the page?" 

"Enough, enough I suppress the stuff," 

Quoth Upton of Sinclair, 
"I would a bitter tale unfold 

Of Sausage and Despair. 

My hero is a foreigner, 

A stranger yet to soap, 
His name Bzzzzisqtyozistnob, 

( Pronounced Bzzuzzixstnope. ) 

"The pigs were squealing lustily 

As knives thrust home to kill. 
Our hero stood knee-deep in blood 

And ran a sausage-mill, 
When suddenly his foot it slipped 

And on the wheels he fell ; 
The sausage-grinder gave a twist, 
As with a horrid yell" — 


Up popped a stranger, weird and wan, 

Whose chin required a shave. 
He tore three handfuls from his beard 

And writhed upon a grave. 
"Alas! she was a cannibal!" 
He moaned as if in pain. 
Then all the Club arose and cried, 
"Good evening, Mr. Caine!" 


"Her Pa committed suicide 

By biting of his head. 
Her mother saw her uncle's ghost 

And died of fright," he said, 
"So her unpleasant habits seem 
Quite curios to me — 
Considering she came from such 
A pleasant familee." 


There came a Russian accent next, 

Belike a popping cork. 
I think 'twas Maxim Gorky who 

Was showing How to Gork; 
But tired of madhouse fantasies, 

Right quickly home I gat: 
I've shed no blood in pen and ink — 

And thank the Lord for that ! 

Two months have passed since Pro- 
fessor Munroe Smith published in the 

February North Ameri- 

"Tournalistic can ^ ev ^ ew t ^ ie most 
tL~™~,» fair-minded and discern- 

ing criticism of Ameri- 
can newspapers that has 
appeared in many years. These qualities 

?>robably account for the fact that not one 
ine of rational comment on his article 
has so far appeared in the daily press. 
Had it missed the point, we should have 



heard more about it, for newspapers are 
apt to reply to foolish criticism, while 
obviously it is no part of their business 
to meet sound criticism with a necessarily 
lame rejoinder and thereby draw attention 
to its merits. Under the title of "The 
Dogma of Journalistic Inerrancy" Pro- 
fessor Smith applies some principles of 
common sense to the relation between 
"news" and facts and to the newspaper 
policy of refusing to acknowledge its own 

News, of course, presents itself as matter 
of fact, but it is in reality only matter of 
impression. News of an occurrence reflects, 
at best, a one-sided superficial view of the 
occurrence. The difference between facts 
and news becomes evident when we com- 
pare the methods by which facts are ascer- 
tained and those by which news is gath- 
ered. The most efficient agencies which the 
wit of man has devised for ascertaining 
facts are scientific investigation and judicial 
inquiry. Both agencies have found it neces- 
sary to develop special and highly techni- 
cal processes and to take plenty of time — 
processes which journalism could not em- 
ploy if it would, and time which the jour- 
nalist has not at his disposal. . . . The 
most important factor of variation, how- 
ever [of news from fact] is the news gath- 
erer's duty to make a "story." This duty 
is not imposed upon him by arbitrary 
editorial policy; it is imposed upon the 
newspaper by the news-readers; and all 
that the editor decides is how far he shall 
go in meeting the public demand. Nor is 
the public desire for true stories a new 
desire created by the newspapers; it is as 
old as human society. . . . More strictly 
than ever before the news-gatherer is held 
to-day to the duty of making a story. If 
the occurrence which he has to describe 
is not interesting, he must supply the in- 
terest. If the details do not group them- 
selves dramatically, they must be re- 
grouped. Omission or addition of incidents 
is governed, not by a desire to make the 
picture correct, but by the obligation to 
make it striking. 


From these and other considerations he 
concludes that "with facts as such news- 
papers have nothing to do." All of which 
is known in every newspaper in the coun- 

try, but newspapers are constrained to act 
as if it were not true. Readers demand 
the "illusion of reality." They do not 
care to be reminded of the limitations of 
daily journalism. Corrections intrude be- 
lated and uninteresting matters. Letters 
to the editor must according to present 
practice be printed with exactness; but 
"the newspaper is bound to resent and 
resist them." "They call upon the journal- 
ist to turn aside from his business of pub- 
lishing the news and making comments 
on the news, and to go into the incon- 
sistent business of publishing facts and 
rendering judgments based on facts." 
The logical result of such a policy would 
be the issue of a "supplementary fact 
paper." "In the fact columns of this sup- 
plement the reader would find corrections, 
first, of yesterday's news ; second, of day 
before yesterday's news; and so on back 
for weeks, for months and possibly for 
years, for in some instances no satisfac- 
tory approximation to the truth could be 
attained until years had elapsed." 

But while Professor Smith justifies this 
policy of journalistic inerrancy, basing it 
on things as they are, he does object to 
the exaltation of it to a dogma, as not 
only absurd in itself but as likely to injure 
the profession. 

The degree to which the dogmatic atti- 
tude has been substituted for the rational 
is reflected in the treatment of letter- 
writers who ask for an editorial correction or 
retraction. To journalists of the agnostic 
and indifferentist type, the aggrieved indi- 
vidual who forces his way into their col- 
umns is a fussy little man whose grievance 
is of no real consequence. Of course no 
satisfaction is to be given him, but it is 
unnecessary to take him seriously or to 
treat him very badly. Such journalists de- 
fend themselves with the weapons of wit 
and humour, in the use of which they nat- 
urally excel. To the thoroughgoing dog- 
matist, on the other hand, the outsider who 
denies journalistic inerrancy is a miscreant, 
to be punished not merely for the general 
purpose of repressing infidelity, but also 
because of his personal sin against the light 
The journalist of the self-righteous type 
is peculiarly vindictive in his treatment of 
such offenders. What does it profit him 



that he is scrupulous beyond others, if he is 
to be reproved as are the publicans of the 
press? These journalists are not happy in 
the use of humour or wit; for the humour 
of an earnest man is heavy and the wit of 
an angry man is blunt. Outsiders who 
question the opinion of an editor of this 
type in matters of any consequence are 
often treated with unwise brutality. They 
are trampled and gored by the Sacred Cow. 

This is unwise and dangerous because 
the resentment aroused may in time lead 
to a restriction of journalistic activities. 

More effective enforcement of the rem- 
edies which the law provides may be secured 
by associated effort. Societies might well 
be formed which for a moderate annual 
premium would insure their members 
against defamation. Able counsel would 
be retained; every grievance alleged by a 
member would be promptly investigated. 
. . . The laws of other countries would be 
•examined, and it would be ascertained that 
in many respects these give more efficient 
protection against misrepresentation than 
is afforded by the laws now in force in our 
States. It would be found in particular 
that most foreign legislatures do not re- 
quire allegation and proof of pecuniary 
•damage, but only of such misrepresenta- 
tion as affects the reputation. . . . 

In our States it is notoriously easy for 
an organised minority to secure almost any 
sort of legislation, and it is evident that 
these libel insurance societies would take 
•care that the new laws did not sleep in the 

The result, lamentable from the point 
-of view of present American journalists, 
might be newspapers resembling "those 
staid journals of Continental Europe, 
which the American newspaper man has 
always derided for lack of enterprise and 
•dearth of interesting news." 

to have agreed that whatever he might do 
in the future, the one thing which he 
never would do, even by accident, was to 
be commonplace. The Bookman has 
not had the privilege of reading two 
other novels by Mr. Snaith, Mistress 
Dorothy Marvin, which certain English 
reviewers pronounce a "rare achieve- 
ment ;" and Henry Northcote, which the 
London Times regards as evidence of 
"gifts of almost disquieting power." But 
even a casual glance at his latest volume, 
William Jordan, Junior, proves it to be 
sufficiently eccentric to justify the earlier 
impression derived from Broke of Cov- 
enden. Whether it is the eccentricity of 
genius, or something quite the reverse is 
a question over which his critics so far 
seem unable to agree. The London 
Times, after a serious effort to under- 
stand the book, concludes helplessly: "We 
admit frankly that it beats us." Several 
other English critics follow the line of 
least resistance, and apply to the author 
a line quoted from the novel: "I know 
the poor chap is hopelessly mad !" And 
on the other hand we come across such 
eulogies as these: from the Liverpool 
Daily Post, "The book is strong and 
thoughtful ; it is born of intense question- 
ings; it probes the strange problems of 
genius;" from the Morning Leader, 
"His eccentricities manifest his genius. 
. . . We have read no more remark- 
able book for a very long time;" from 
the Glasgow Herald, "There are signs in 
this book that the author may in future 
reach a far higher level of distinction." 
As for ourselves, we reserve judgment, 
admitting only that the book interested 
us deeply. It is not a volume easy to lay 
down. You read on and on, even where 
you understand the least, in a dogged de- 
termination to discover whether the ob- 
scurity is due to your own brain or to 
the author's. 

When Mr. J. C. Snaith was first in- 
troduced to the American public, four 

years ago, through the 

medium of Broke of 

J. C. Snaith Covenden, the majority 

of his readers, whether 

they liked the somewhat 

•sardonic quality of his irony or not, seem 

A pretty good evidence that Mr. Snaith 
knows quite well what he is doing, and 
deliberately adapts his style to his sub- 
ject-matter, is found in the announce- 
ment, just made, that his next story, to 
be published in the autumn, is a historical 
novel of adventure, the scene laid in 
Spain, the title Fortune, the general 



structure and atmosphere that of the 
modern school of Dumas imitators. In 
fact, those who have read the manuscript 
assert that, aside from a few mannerisms, 
it might pass as the work of Stanley 
Weyman at his best. 

From Guzman de Alfarache to Mori- 
arty and Raffles, the Rogue in Fiction 

has had full honour done 
The him. It is quite other- 

Gentleman wise with a kindred and 

Vagabond equally appealing type, 

the Gentleman Vaga- 
bond, — the man who, with rank, wealth, 
success at his command, elects, either 
from a love of adventure, or perhaps 
out of sheer boredom, to cast these 
things aside and become a Knight of the 
Road. The novelists who have at- 
tempted to present this type have almost 
without exception begun by apologising 
for him. The hero of the earliest pica- 
resco novel that has survived, — the 
Metamorphosis, by Apuleius of Medaura, 
written in Latin centuries before the 
word picaresco was even coined, — was 
of the breed of Gentleman Vagabond, a 
man of birth, fortune and refined in- 
stincts; and the author can think of no 
better way of explaining his erratic ad- 
ventures than by metamorphosing him 
into an ass, gaunt, hungry, long of ears 
and tail. The Knight of La Mancha, the 
prince of all Gentleman Vagabonds, was, 
as the whole world knows, mentally un- 
balanced. And so, to this day, every 
writer who ventures to convert a gentle- 
man into an outcast and a wanderer, 
straightway starts in to find an excuse for 
him, — it matters not how far-fetched the 
excuse may seem, so long as it is an 
excuse. fc 

Now, the plain truth is that nearly all 
of us have, somewhere in our nature, a 
remnant of the old, primeval nomad in- 
stinct. At certain intervals, especially at 
this season of the year, when field and 
stream and tree are all awakening, we 
feel a longing to break away from con- 
vention, to don our hat, walk out into the 
open, and on and on, without turning, 
without looking back, without worrying 
about letters unanswered, appointments 

unkept, bills unpaid, but thinking only 
that the sun is warm, and life is good, 
and the road ahead calls invitingly. 
Luckily for the established social order, 
no such epidemic seizes a large propor- 
tion of mankind at once ; and most of us 
go through life content to enjoy our vaga- 
bondage by proxy, comfortably gowned 
and slippered, following imaginary wan- 
derings from the depths of an easy chair. 
But the point which it is worth while for 
the novelist to consider seriously is that 
our nomad instinct is sufficiently strong 
to make us believe in the imaginary 
hero's revolt against conventions, with- 
out any further apology. We do not 
need to assume that every Gentleman 
Vagabond in literature has first been 
transformed, literally or symbolically, 
into a Golden Ass. We are even dis- 
posed to be fairly tolerant of the vaga- 
bondage of certain of Ouida's pseudo- 
gentlemen, such as Tricotrin, until she 
mars our pleasure by some preposterous 
story of self-abnegation and the patient 
bearing of another's sins. Self-abne- 
gation? We simply refuse to credit it. 
Tricotrin was in modern parlance having 
the time of his life; so was William J. 
Locke's Beloved Vagabond, so is the 
whole race of Gentleman nomads to 
which they belong. They wander for the 
pure love of wandering; and all this 
laborious structure of melodramatic ex- 
cuses is a sheer waste of time, because it 
convinces nobody. 

It is much to the credit of Mr. James 
Prior to have given, in his recently pub- 
lished novel, The Walking Gentleman, 
the pure type of the Gentleman Vaga- 
bond, who takes to the road from no bet- 
ter reason than the promptings of an in- 
born instinct. It pictures an English 
nobleman, young, well-to-do, on the eve 
of marriage with a woman whom he has 
always liked fairly well, who leaves his 
home one clear summer day, with a lunch- 
eon engagement ahead of him, falls in 
with a party of butchers, bakers and 
candlestick makers, just starting on a 
rollicking all-day picnic; joins them, for 
the first time in his life coming in close 
contact with fellow human beings who 
are not of his own exclusive caste ; finds 



E. C. Stedman 
in Chicago 

life for the first time a succession of 
pleasant novelties, instead of an endless 
boredom; and accordingly throws him- 
self like a bit of driftwood on the waves 
of chance, and drifts on, endlessly, along 
the highways and byways of England, 
regardless of friends and family and 
bride-to-be. A consideration of the mer- 
its of this book in detail may well be left 
to the reviewer, who discusses it else- 
where in the present issue. But, whether 
good or bad in structure and develop- 
ment, it may at least be hailed as a wel- 
come pioneer in a new and interesting: 
field. m * 

A propos of Miss Ticknor's paper in 
the present issue on Edmund Clarence 

Stedman and Eugene 
Field we recall the 
very extraordinary pro- 
gramme announced by 
the latter in his column 
"Sharps and Flats" at the time, some 
years ago, when Mr. Stedman was to 
visit Chicago as a guest of the Twentieth 
Century Club of that city. Field, it will 
be remembered, possessed to an extraor- 
dinary degree the faculty of inventing 
the most impossible yarns and writing 
them up with such apparent sincerity and 
such minuteness of detail that most 
readers gulped them gaspingly but with- 
out question. On one occasion he con- 
cocted an outrageously ridiculous story 
concerning Prince Alexander of Bulgaria. 
Had the story been given baldly the 
hoax would have been apparent to the 
most gullible of readers ; but turned and 
twisted in Field's hands, embellished by 
figures and supported by names and ad- 
dresses, it was made at last to seem ex- 
traordinary but true. Henry Labouchere 
printed it solemnly in London Truth add- 
ing some comment of his own. In the 
reception to Mr. Stedman, Field found a 
delightful opportunity to give vent to his 
spirits. According to the circumstantial 
and dramatic picture that he drew, the 
prospective visit of the poet Was certainly 
stirring up Chicago literary circles. 
"Sharps and Flats" told picturesquely, 
yet with the utmost gravity, of very 
wonderful preparations that were being 
made and of a grand banquet that was to 
be. A giant procession was to conduct 

the guest from the railway station and 
Field announced authoritatively the fol- 
lowing order of march. 

Twenty police officers afoot. 
The Grand Marshal, horseback, accompanied 
by ten male members of the Twentieth 
Century Club, also horseback. 
Mr. Stedman in a landau drawn by four horses, 
two black and two white. 
The Twentieth Century Club in carriages. 
A brass band afoot. 
The Robert Browning Club in Frank Par- 
melee's 'buses. 
The Homer Clubs afoot, preceded by a fife 
and drum corp, and a real Greek phi- 
losopher attired in a tunic 
Another brass band. 
A beautiful young woman playing a guitar, 
symbolising Apollo and his lute, in a car 
drawn by nine milk-white stallions, 

impersonating the Muses. 

Two hundred Chicago poets afoot. 

The Chicago Literary Club in carriages. 

Another brass band. 

Magnificent Advertising car of Armour & Co. 

illustrating the progress of civilisation. 

The Fish Bladder Brigade and the Blue 

Island Avenue Shelley Club. 

The Fire Department. 

Another brass band. 

Citizens in carriages, afoot and horseback. 

Advertising cars and wagons. 

Here is a plot which possesses at least 
the merit of extraordinary originality. It 

must be credited to Mary 
The S. Watts, the author of 

Automaton! The Tenant, which is be- 

Pugilist ing published this spring. 

Mrs. Watts tells us that 
all during her childhood she was pur- 
suing the story-telling fancies; but that 
she can now remember only one of these 
early stories. This was about an autom- 
aton prize-fighter. He won the fight, 
upon which, it is unnecessary to say, a 
great deal of money was at stake. After- 
wards, however, his inventor got into a 
row with the defeated pugilist on a rail- 
road train, and trying to make the au- 
tomaton fight again, it wouldn't work. 
The secret is in imminent danger of being 
divulged when the train runs off a trestle. 
In the smash-up nobody is hurt, but the 
automaton pugilist is shivered to atoms, 
so that no one but his inventor and his 
backers ever know about the deception. 

We do not know that Mr. Winston 
Churchill has ever avowed an ambition 



to become the American Balzac, but there 
is a curious symmetry in 
his literary career which 
suggests the possibility 
of a far-reaching plan. 
th RUhard Carvel, he evi- 

The New 

Beginning 1 

clently set himself to the representation 
of certain important epochs in American 
history. The Crisis, dealing with the 
period of the Civil War, and The Cross- 
ing, which pictured the westward de- 
velopment of the United States, com- 

From hi* latest portrait 


of mind, has found plenty of material in 

his own experience as a candidate for the 
governorship of New Hampshire. The 
fact that he is receiving his full share of 
abuse in certain New England news- 
papers indicates that he has fairly quali- 
fied as a political expert and that he has 
become a factor in the politics of his 
state. If only he has "let himself go" in 
his new book, Mr. Crewe's Career may 
be expected to furnish an amount of 
amusement and instruction greater than 
that afforded by any of his stories of the 


General Homer Lea, author of The 

Vermilion Pencil, a romance of China 

which will be published this spring, has 

long been somewhat of an enigma even 


pleted a trilogy which fairly represented 
the most important moments in the first 
one hundred years of our history as a 
nation. This was in itself a scheme of 
some magnitude, but Mr. Churchill fol- 
lowed it up with Collision, in which he 
set forth a typical example of the political 
development of the country immediately 
after the Civil War. Up to this point he 
had never dealt with a strictly modern 
theme except in his first book, The Celeb- 
rity, which was, so to speak, a mere by- 
product and had no special relation with 
the rest of his work. 
Now comes the news that his new 
book, Mr: Crewe's Career, which is to he 
published this spring, is a story of the 
present day and Mas for its background 
the political life of al^ueration succeed- 
ing that of Collision. T^qniarily, of 
course, it is a story of character, as all 
of Mr. Churchill's books have been>and 
the "love interest" is said to have re-~ 
ceived rather more attention than in 
some of his earlier novels. But secon- 
darily, Mr. Crewe's Career is to be an 
exposition of the political game as it is 
played to-day. Without doubt Mr. 
Churchill, who is of an observing turn 


•_ r 


to his friends, and it is only recently that 
any facts concerning his mysterious 

career have come to light. 

A descendant from the 
Homer Lea collateral branch of the 

Lea family which gave 

the South its greatest 
general, Homer Lea while still a student 
of Stanford University in California be- 
gan to turn his attention to matters mili- 
tary, acquiring an intimate knowledge of 
history and, amongst other peculiarities, 
making a specialty of the study of 
Chinese. None* of his college friends, not 
even his room-mate, professed to under- 
stand him properly. He was considered 
a good fellow but eccentric, and when 
prevented by an attack of smallpox from 
graduating he suddenly left California 
for China without giving any warning 
of what he intended to do. It is now 
known, however, that he became deeply 
involved in the internal troubles that dis- 
turbed the Celestial Empire, and became 
identified with and a leader in that party 
which aimed at the restoration of the 
Emperor who since 1898 had been a 
helpless prisoner in the Purple Palace. 

In 1900, when the Boxer rebellion had 
thrown the Empire into a state of chaos, 
he saw a chance to strike. Pekin was 
occupied by eight foreign nations and the 
court had fled from the imperial city to 
the fortress of Siamfu. Homer Lea was 
away in the southern provinces raising 
recruits, but as soon as he heard what 
had happened in Pekin, he determined to 
travel alone with two of his Chinese 
officers a distance of about a thousand 
miles, form a conjunction with Tong 
Tsoi Shang, a powerful friend of the 
Emperor, who had 20,000 men at his 
command, and march with him on 
Siamfu. After an extraordinary journey 
through a remote part of the country in- 
fested by robbers and river pirates, and 
when he had got within about one hun- 
dred miles of his destination, word was 
brought him of Tong Tsoi Shang's exe- 
cution. He immediately despatched a 
courier to the mountain cantonments of 
Tong Tsoi Shang's forces with orders to 
await his arrival, but it was too late, as 
the Empress had already caused the 
troops to be dispersed and incidentally 
set a price on Homer Lea's head. 



IV. — Portland, Maine 

HSON once said to the 
■ attentive Boswell, that 
ifor him the current of 
■his life was at its full 
I whenever he was driven 

J briskly along Fleet Street 

i a hackney-coach. This was all very 
well for Dr. Samuel Johnson. He hap- 
pened to be a purblind, corpulent person, 
unable to see very far beyond his nose, 
and afflicted with an asthmatic shortness 
of breath which made him gasp and 
wheeze whenever he was obliged to walk. 
Years of garret-life, of tavern talk and of 
London fog had caused his appreciation 
of Nature in the large to become atro- 
phied, just as the nicety of his tastes had 
become blunted. Hence to rattle along 
over the cobblestones in a stuffy coach 
was to him the very acme of delight. If, 
at the end of his drive, he found awaiting 
him a platter of stewed hare that was un- 
duly "high," accompanied by a stout loaf, 
plenty of rancid butter and a steaming 
jorum of strong tea, he felt that he had 
really reached Elysium. 

Now if I were a person of sufficient 
importance to have a Boswell, I should 
set forth to him an ideal very different 
from that of the Great Cham. Of all the 
places on the habitable earth, where is it 
that one can get the keenest sense of what 
is good in life? Where will his blood 
race through his veins most joyously? 
Where will a glorious exhilaration make 
him feel as though he were walking upon 
air, with a sense of supreme well-being, 
of healthful, zestful happiness just be- 
cause he is alive and there? Believe a 
normal human being of nomadic tastes 
when he tells you that all of these sensa- 
tions will come upon you overwhelmingly, 
if you will only walk on Congress Street 
in Portland, Maine, some where about the 
end of June. The sunny fields of Kent 
are very fine. The roses of the Riviera and 

the blue of the Italian lakes are charming. 
The palms of Santa Catalina sway with 
a seductive fascination. The Rockies 
and the Alps are majestic in the boldness 
of their beauty. The long, dim vistas of 
the Schwarzwald murmur almost lyrically 
through the leaves that make of every 
tree a deep-green bower. Yet these may 
all go hang when I recall the buoyancy 
of soul which comes over me on Congress 
Street in Portland, Maine. 

The truth is that certain places are 
meant to be enjoyed by poets only, while 
others are supremely satisfying to the 
wholly unimaginative nature. Thus, the 
Lago di Garda would give endless plea- 
sure to a sensitive, unworldly spirit such 
as Shelley — that beautiful and ineffec- 
tual angel of the luminous void. On the 
other hand, the Hon. Enoch P. Scruggs 
of Altoona, Pennsylvania, and his good 
lady and the Misses Scruggs, would ask 
nothing better of Providence than a long 
sojourn at Asbury Park. Yet few ol 
us are really poets, and some of us are 
more exacting than the famille Scruggs. 
We like to have our heads well up in air 
and yet at the same time to keep our feet 
planted firmly on the solid earth. The 
actual and usual seen against a back- 
ground of romance — this is what appeals 
to me, at least, far more than either ab- 
stract and unchanging beauty, or the 
crude monotony of the commonplace. 
Fundamentally, this middle ground, 
when you come to think of it, is attrac- 
tive and appealing just because it is a 
microcosmic reproduction of human life 
itself — life as it actually is and as it has 
been made for us, not by poets nor yet 
by plodders, but by the God of Things as 
They Are. 

Here is the Horatian philosophy of the 
aurea mediocritas. Mcdiocritas — yes, but 
always aurea. That sagacious Roman 
who has seemed to every age to be its own 
possession, who is to-day more truly 



modern than even Mr. Bernard Shaw, 
and who will remain eternally the genial 
friend and easy-going monitor of all man- 
kind — Horace, I say, knew well that con- 
trast is the very essence of enjoyment. 
Sed neque qui Capua Romam petit imbre lutoque 
Adspersus volet in- eaupona vivere ; nee qui 
Frigus collegit furnos et balnea laudat. 

Harmony is the more ravishing when 
it follows discord ; beauty is the more en- 
trancing when it stands out radiantly be- 
side ugliness ; and grains of gold gleam 
brightest when one finds them in a lump 
of clay. So let us learn to view the com- 
plicated web of human life that we may 
at last arrive at the supreme philosophy 

caporal sufrerieur, paquet rose — be 
granted me as a concomitant to medita- 

But to return to Congress Street in 
June. The sky above is intensely blue. 
A soft yet bracing breeze blows up the 
street from the undulating waters of the 
Bay. It flutters the awnings and makes 
the flags stream proudly on their staffs. 
Everything is as fresh and sweet and as 
clearly outlined as though Portland had 
been created on that very morning instead 
of much more than two centuries ago. 
This is not really newness, much less raw- 
ness. It is the neat, self-respecting trim- 
ness of a city — simplex mundiliis — that is 


of enjoyment which can derive exquisite 
pleasure anywhere from the contrasts 
which meet us in the study of mankind, 
from the analysis of anything, from the 
gleams of humour, the subtle tints of per- 
sonality, the ways and manners of one's 
fellow men and women, and the pictur- 
esqueness of the background, whatever it 
may be. If you have acquired this price- 
less gift, you can be happy even at 
Ulubrae. The smallest hamlet or the 
largest city — it is quite the same. Every- 
where the human comedy goes on for- 
ever. As for myself, I think that I have 
learned the lesson — provided only that 
I can be sure of getting well-cooked 
meals, however simple, and provided 
also that a certain brand of cigarettes — 

still American to its very core, with sug- 
gestive touches of Old England to give it 
dignity and the softened charm of age. 
Looking down from a gradual slope is 
one of the most delightful of hotels, 
nestling among trees, and with broad 
verandas that invite you to be quite at 
home. Yet if you choose, you can turn 
into Oak Street and take up your abode in 
"chambers" and be as comfortable as you 
will, a I'Anglaise. 

The spreading trees with their half- 
arched greenery are one of the great 
charms of Portland. Turn off just where 
you like, and you will gaze down shaded 
streets on which the sunshine sifts its way 
seductively through the foliage. The 
houses — fine old mansions — are set in 


gently <ra tbe pebbles 

velvet lawns dappled by the shadows will find, yourself upon a strip of turf 

of their elms and oaks. And every which overlooks the sparkle of the sea. 

little while you will come upon a park Only a few antique and interesting can- 

with limpid pools of water and beds of non share the place with you; and if you 

flowers and the spray of fountains. Or, are so fortunate as to wander thither by 

if you care to take another course, you the side of a charming girl, you may ad- 


'-■"* .' ■ n*' ,-' '•'*£"", j -;■' 


is, . ; . :' i • 

*■**& ! i •' 

...... .^h 

*7t+ **■ * w^*«v i^ - ■ * '49H 


" Here are grass-Brown paths t 



mire her to your heart's content, while 
the wind, with caressing touch, loosens 
the little fluffs of hair about her face and 
makes her colour come and go bewitch- 
ingly. And what you say to her no one 
will ever hear, except perhaps the birds 
that twitter in the tree-tops. 

But it is Congress Street that calls one 
back— Congress Street, with its throngs of 
people moving busily up and down the 
sidewalks, its handsome shops, its general 
air of thrift and order and prosperity. 
Every one you meet has clear bright eyes 
and a touch of incipient tan. Every one 
is well and cheerful and alive. You are 
very much alive yourself, and are every 
moment thanking Heaven for it. You 
look into the windows where the jewel- 
lers display their dainty wares. You pur- 
chase great masses of carnations at a 
price so trifling as to make the flowers 
seem a gift from the Portlanderinn who 
hands them to you with a frank and 
friendly smile. You are ready to do any- 
thing, to go anywhere, to laugh aloud and 
even to burst forth into song, because, as 
I said, you are so very much alive. Small 
wonder that Anthony Trollope wrote as 
he did of Portland and its people nearly 
fifty years ago. Mark the healthy and 
roast-beefy tone of the approving Briton : 

"Portland has an air of supreme plenty. . . . 
The faces of the people tell of three regular 
meals of meat a day, and of digestive powers 
in proportion. O happy Portlanders ! If they 
only knew their own good fortune ! They get 
up early and go to bed early. The women are 
comely and sturdy, able to take care of them- 
selves, without any fal-lal of chivalry, and the 
men are sedate, obliging, and industrious. I 
saw the young girls in the streets coming home 
from their tea-parties at nine o'clock, many of 
them alone, and all with some basket in their 
hands, which betokened an evening not passed 
absolutely in idleness. No fear there of unruly 
questions on the way, or of insolence from the 
ill-conducted of the other sex. All was, or 
seemed to be, orderly, sleek, and unobtrusive. 
Probably, of all modes of life that are allotted 
. to man by his Creator, life such as this is the 
most happy." 

Dear old Anthony knew a thing or two. 
In Trollope's time, Mr. Cordes had not 
yet spread his tables for the hungry visi- 

tor, nor was the fine hotel there, with its 
admirable chef; but Portland was well 
catered to, we may be sure. And even 
then the sun shone bright on Congress 
Street and its historic monuments. There 
is a good deal of history associated with 
Portland, but I admire this chiefly because 
it gives a fitting background for the liv- 
ing present. That is what history is for, 
just as that is the real use of architecture. 
I like to think of Preble, and I like to 
look at the fine structures of St. Dom- 
inic's and St. Luke's as I rove about the 
town; but the trolley-cars are also an 
essential part of it, and so are the trees, 
and the shops, and all the rest. 

If you care to, you may visit the house 
where Longfellow was born; but I have 
never myself done so. It seems rather 
foolish to make pilgrimages to the birth- 
places of distinguished men. You are 
certain to be disappointed. There is 
Shakespeare's — at least, it is conjecturally 
his ; a wretched, squalid hole of a garret, 
which only makes you sorry for the poet. 
And there is the birthplace of Robert 
Burns, transformed into a peep-show of 
tawdry "relics." What does it matter 
where a man was born ? There is no par- 
ticular merit in being born. No one who 
is born has any choice in the matter. He 
is just born because he has to be. The 
real thing to consider is what he does 
with himself after he has been born. I 
feel a reverential thrill when I enter Sir 
Walter Scott's noble book-lined study at 
Abbotsford, and see everything just as 
it was when he was still alive — his 
leathern chair, his desk, at which he wrote 
each morning before his guests were out 
of bed. But where he was born is of no 
earthly consequence. Shakespeare and 
Scott and Burns and Longfellow must all 
have looked alike when they were babies 
— rather red, and given to squalling, and 
doubtless smelling of sour milk. No; 
Longfellow's birthplace I will not visit. 
I like to think that when he was a man, 
he, too, walked on Congress Street wear- 
ing rather gorgeous waistcoats. But to 
my mind, Portland is not so much an 
object of admiration because of Long- 
fellow, as Longfellow is to be envied be- 
cause he had the good luck to be born in 

A grocer's shop is not usually the sort 



of place where one lingers merely be- 
cause it provides a sensation of aesthetic 
pleasure. Yet on Congress Street there is 
a grocer's shop which has a singular at- 
traction for me. In it Art has cast a 
certain glamour over Utility, as, indeed, 
it always should. In the golden period of 
Greek genius, the two were never sepa- 
rated. The artistic glorified the useful, 
while the useful made the artistic serve 
the needs of human life. It was only in 
the time of Aristotle that the notion of 
Fine Art was made separate and distinct ; 
and Aristotle marks the beginning of 
Greek decadence. A Platonist would un- 
derstand just why this grocer's shop at- 
tracts me, — and so would a mere hedon- 
ist. I admire the spaciousness of the 
place, the orderly arrangement of every- 
thing in it, the subordination of such 
usual wares as Hour and kerosene and 
butter to the more tempting confections 
which are in themselves delightful and 
which can be treated with daintiness and 
delicacy. The honeycombs gleam like 
pale gold through the glass which lucently 
contains them. The cherries axt tnaras- 
quin, the thick white stalks of asparagus, 
the tcrrines of pates truffes, the jars of 
Dundee jam, the dark-green olives, the 
luscious California peaches, the slim 
round wooden disks enclosing Camem- 
bert, the candied violets, the thousand 
and one trifles which make gastronomy a 
part of poetry — why on earth did Zola 
write a symphony of cheeses only, in- 
stead of a dithyramb of dainties that 
should leave nothing out ? 

But what I like most is the broad 
counter which runs along nearly the 
whole of one side, and which seems 
almost empty, save for a few trifling 
hints of devilled crabs and other freshly 
prepared comestibles. Two or three neat 
and pleasant-faced girls are standing 
here. If you merely hint the wish, they 
will see that, at whatever hour you men- 
tion, there will be ready for you whole 
roasted chickens, or delightful ducks and 
dainty salads and lettuce sandwiches 
blending their green leaves with the gold 
of their rich mayonnaise, — hampers, in 
short, packed full of things such as 
Lucullus would have loved. And why? 
Because, indeed, you are intending to 
take a little steamer and go down the 

Bay to picnic on one of the fascinating 
islands that rise above the sunlit waters, 
with great rocks and woods and winding 
beaches, while Nature's own reposeful 
spirit touches them with peace. Let us 
convey our wishes to one of the maidens 
— and intimate that we wish her to be 
very, very bountiful and make the 
hamper a marvellous one even for Port- 
land, where the horn of plenty pours 
forth all the gifts of the genial goddess, 

Then, presently, let us make our way 
down to the crowded wharves, where 
every sort of craft is moored, and where, 
even if there be no "Spanish sailors with 
their bearded lips," there is a glorious 
suggestion of all "the magic and the 
mystery of the sea." At the Harpswell 
landing, and swaying in the slip, is a stout 
little steamer, the Maquoit, which from 
its size would be mistaken in the harbour 
of Manhattan for a tug-boat. Yet please 
view the Maquoit with all respect. She 
has a Cap'n with a gold-laced cap, presid- 
ing in the pilot-house, whom his crew ad- 
dress in true naval style as "sir." She 
has a first officer and a purser and a suffi- 
cient complement of sailprs — a sturdy, 
self-respecting, manly set of men; and 
officially they are just as proud of navi- 
gating the Maquoit as though she were 
the Lusitania. 

Maybe the boat will not leave the pier 
on time. To oblige a friend of the Cap'n, 
the Maquoit can be held indefinitely. 
If a lady has asked the purser not to leave 
until she comes, and has intimated that 
she may be just a little late, the purser 
will tell the Cap'n, and the Cap'n's 
weather-beaten face will radiate a ready 
acquiescence. It is a friendly country, 
this. Every one likes to be nice to every- 
body else, and time is of no particular 
value. Meanwhile, the passengers come 
aboard, and strange-looking packages 
and boxes are loaded on the lower deck 
and even, at a pinch, upon the upper 
deck. Parcels from Portland milliners, 
crates of cackling poultry, great sides 
of beef, and perhaps a protesting pig, 
are mingled with articles of furniture 
and baby-carriages. For the people who 
live on the islands all the length of Casco 
Bay down to the open ocean must be 
nourished and made comfortable from 



Portland. You lazily view the loading, 
and admire the varied tastes of those 
whose most sacred Lares and Penates are 
shipped on the Maquoit. And the pas- 
sengers as they arrive are worth your 
study too. Delightful girls appear in 
simple costumes, with rosy faces and the 
touch of sun upon their shapely arms. 
Their white skirts and fluttering ribbons 
show bravely against the sober costumes 
of the island men, or for the matter of 
that, against the grey or dark blue of 
Outlanders like yourself. The whole 
scene is animated — the ruinble of the 
trucks, the chatter of the women, the 
splash of the restless water against the 
piles, the swaying of the little steamer, the 
breeze and sun and salt and splendour of 
the Bay beyond. So, if the Maquoit neg- 
lects the time-table, you do not care. No- 
body cares. You are happy anyhow. In 
the cities time is money; but up here in 
this blessed land, time is something better 
— time is pleasure and you have all the 
time there is. 

In the days when our great country had 
not yet expanded westward very far, men 
used to say "From Maine to Georgia" 
when they wished to convey a sense of 
ultimates. It is odd, but somehow or 
other, extremes have really met in this 
particular antithesis. Maine and Georgia 
are very much alike in certain aspects of 
their people. The typical man of Maine 
resembles not a bit the typical New Eng- 
lander as we are wont to think of the 
New Englander. He is as remote from 
the Massachusetts man as from a South 
Sea Islander, and much more agreeable 
than either. The Massachusetts man 
speaks with an air of sharp decision. He 
is tremendously "informing." He is not 
happy unless he can direct you or reform 
you or instruct you. His accents, always 
slightly nasal, twang like a Jew's-harp 
when he talks to you. He is brisk, self- 
conscious, ill at ease, and he would rather 
like to bully you — for your own good. 
All these traits — even the twang — he in- 
herited honestly from the provincial re- 
gions of Old England whence his dissent- 
ing forbears came. But the Maine man 
has not the slightest affinity with him. His 
speech is slow and gentle. The harsher 
consonants shade off into mere phonetic 
hints, while the liquids and the vowels 

are prolonged deliriously. He has no 
twang whatever, but instead a pleasant 
drawl, precisely that of the far South. He 
does not want to teach you anything. He 
is not in a hurry. He is patient, kindly, 
unobtrusive. He seldom laughs aloud; 
but a glint of humour will come into his 
eyes and a smile will light his face. He 
observes everything, but he says very 
little. He is not self-conscious in the 
least, but wholly natural and simple with 
a dignity which comes from living close 
to Nature. Take him all in all he is about 
the finest type of American that I know. 

I wonder for how long a time these 
kindly, honest, upright people of Maine 
will remain unspoiled. How long will it 
be ere their sound, simple qualities will 
feel the uneasy influences of the age? 
Even to-day, one seems to recognise a 
weakened moral fibre, a slight decadence, 
in the rising generation when compared 
with the fathers and the mothers. The 
young men and the young women are 
drifting to the towns, or at home are 
growing to be less rugged and less sound. 

While I am thinking of these things, the 
whistle of the Maquoit hoots hoarsely and 
the boat steams out into the Bay. Two 
lanky men are sitting near me in the bow ; 
and as we swing into the channel, they 
begin to talk in measured tones. 

"Yes," observes the elder of the two, 

twas a blamed queer thing. It hap- 
pened in Noo York. I read it in one of 
them papers. You see, 'twas like this. 
A widow woman had lost her husband an' 
she went and ejected the insurance 
money from a bank." 

"What had the bank to do with it?" 
inquired the other. 

"I d'no; but anyhow the money was in 
the bank and she went and drew it out. 
Well, the feller in the bank handed her 
the bills and she was sticking them in her 
wallet. Up in one corner of the bank 
was one of them things thet whirl around 
and make a sort of rush of air. They 
have 'em in banks, I'm told, to keep them 
fellers cool in summer. Well, jest as the 
lady was poking them bills into her wal- 
let, a stream of air licked up one of 'em 
— th' paper said 'twas a thousand dollar 
bill, — and ketched it. 'N she never no- 
ticed it till she got home and counted the 

« > 



"I guess she was put out some. 

"Well, I guess so too. But when she 
went back to th' bank, thet feller there 
had seen the bill and had kep' it for her. 
When she came in, he just forked it out 
as ca'm as you please." 

His listener meditated for a while. 
Then he asked : 

"Would you 'a kep it for her an' give 
it back?" 

"Oh, yes, I'd a done just the same." 
He spat meditatively over the side. "Only 
't would 'a bin a pull, I guess. But, you 
see, she was a widow woman." 

"Yes, it doos make a lot of difFrence 
who 'tis. Now I found a wallet once 
with seven dollars and eighty-seven cents 
into it. I knew whose it was, because it 
had her name on it. She was a good 
woman, too. I knocked off work a little 
earlier than usual an' took a car over to 
her house. Well, she wasn't in. Her old 
aunt said I c'd leave it. I sez 'No, mam, 
not till you give me my car-fares coming 
and going.' Well, now, she wouldn't 
agree. So I sez: 'All right; then I'll 
keep the wallet till Mis' Brown comes and 
gets it.' An' so I went off with it an' left 
her there. I guess she was pretty 

"The old hen !" commented the other, 
yet with a certain philosophic calm that 
made the remark seem quite impersonal. 

But now the Maquoit has got down 
into the open Bay, past Peak Island and 
Long Island, and into the wonderful 
archipelago beyond which lies the illimit- 
able ocean. There is nothing like those 
islands anywhere. Their trees are so 
very green; their beaches are so snowy 
white. They are just as God meant them 
to be forever, from the smallest to the 
greatest, except perhaps Orr's Island, 
which has experienced the taint of other 
influences. When Mrs. Stowe described 
the Pearl of Orr's Island, I suppose that 
the Pearl was really pearly. But she is 
dead and gone to-day. I have seen the 
present Pearl. She is blowsy and bold- 
eyed, and when I saw her, she was sitting 
in the lap of a half-drunken hackman. 
But of all the other islands, I know none 
that is not beautiful in its own way — 

from bleak Mark Island, lonely and un- 
inhabited, to Great Chebeague, which is 
the queen of the whole group. It is 
large enough to have some good inland 
roads, so that you do not feel imprisoned 
by the surrounding sea. Its shore is 
scalloped into curving strips of sand, or 
else it juts out boldly in great rocks upon 
which the surf comes thundering in 
clouds of spray. 

Here and there is a huge boulder that 
seems like a missile hurled from a 
giant's sling when the world was young, 
with a gaunt uprooted pine beside it, 
keeping it company in its isolation. Here 
are grass-grown paths from which you 
get a glimpse of some slender pier run- 
ning far out into the water. And the 
people are the best people in all Maine in 
their hospitality and Tightness and self- 
respecting courtesy. Heaven send that 
they may never change! 

Go down to the beach that faces the 
north end of Littlejohn's, and push out 
in a rowboat which answers to your 
slightest stroke. In half an hour the 
keel will grate gently on the pebbles of a 
crescent beach. The thick grass and the 
white birches come down to the very edge 
of the fine sand. Throw out your anchor 
there and find a place to lie on, with the 
sun streaming full upon your face and 
filling you with the glory of life. It is not 
the sickly, sticky sun-fire of the cities. 
The fresh wind tempers its power, so that 
it makes your face tingle under its touch, 
and you feel a glow all through your 
veins as from some rare and wondrous 
wine. The sky above is a vault of pure 
sapphire through which now and then a 
gull wings its way, a fleck of distant 
white. Before you is the sea with its 
infinite murmurings. Behind you, the 
notes of a wood-bird come faintly 
through the trees. The scent of clover- 
blossoms mingles with the odour of the 
seaweed. You are lulled and soothed 
and fascinated by the beauty of it, the 
perfection of it, the wonder of it all ; and 
you believe with a deep reverence and 
thankfulness that everything is for the 
best in this very best of all possible 

a ;german's 


HERHAPS it is the spirit 
Hof Teutonic militarism 
I that gives to modern 
' Germany an objective di- 
|rectness in almost every- 
1 thing from poetry to 
I painting, a quality that 
lends an incisive poignancy to the art of 
her caricaturists. We Americans de- 
pend too much on a caricaturist's illustra- 
tive capacity, the English upon his 
record of affairs that are past, the French 
on the pathetically ridiculous, the Span- 
iards on the horrible, and the Italians on 
nothing in particular. As for the Ger- 
man he hits hard and hits home, without 
plot, without reminiscence, without fool- 
ishness, without ghastliness, and without 
froth. He can imprison satire in one 
line, and let it loose with another. Even 
when his caricature-portraits have none 
of the usual earmarks of facial resem- 
blances his lines catch the index of per- 
sonality, mercilessly and inflexibly. Cari- 
cature of that sort becomes international 
in its appeal to the scalpel-like instinct 
(variously assorted, but as yet without a 

specific class-name), with which human- 
ity is endowed to an extreme degree. 
We Americans may consider London 
Punch the primer of hilarics; the Eng- 
lish probably find us too subtle; we all 
tire of the Frenchman's froth and frivol, 
and every one of us is apt to be bored by 
the Italian's endeavour to perpetrate a 
joke with a pencil. However, the Ger- 
man caricaturist has found an "open 
sesame" to the whole world's sense of 
humour, and as you sit over coffee at 
Florian's in Venice, of in the Paix at 
Paris, you find them bringing you the 
German satirical journals oftener than 
those of your own country or theirs; 
even the most Britannic perception 
knows what the German jokist is about 
from the way the Teuton goes at things, 
biting the plate of manners and morals 
with the mordant of his art and produc- 
ing an etching on mentality that counts 
for something everywhere. 

Like the German editor, the German 
caricaturist stands a good running chance 
of living at the expense of the govern- 
ment, to judge from the experiences of 


Rememberinn that the eyes ore the window! ottt 

u a m i st akably— perhaps unfairly 


I [ 


no d£- 

d a n 


D ". :( 






00 OD " 
0000 * 



q DOO 


n ifl a a [fo a o a ^^nO 


president Roosevelt's hunting 

president Roosevelt's hunting expedition— hi 

the U outer it itundlng rendy to receive oongratnUtionn— if there ihonld happen to be »uy 

'Behold tnel Divine In my delight In the Ditto*] " 


Who Uku a spiral point of view of tlimga and 



the indefatigable Th. Th. Heine, who 
courted the imperial wrath of William of 
Germany by an audacious excursion into 
the realms of satire and art. This he did 
by his political shaft aimed at the target 
of the Emperor's progress through Pales- 
tine. Whether in Jugend, the Fliegende 
BlaUer,Simpl\cis$imtis,OT in the Megge n- 

dorfer Blatter it is all the same — every- 
where directness of line and mass are 
employed to convey ideas more than to 
convey stories. 

I do not think it is an exaggeration to 
say that among the leading satirists of 
Germany O. Gulbransson, known best 
by his caricatures in Stmplicissimus, 




stands foremost in the art of caricature 
in that country to-day. Perhaps his re- 
cent cartoon of Mr. Roosevelt's blow at 
the Trust idea best illustrates, in a gen- 
eral way, his keen and searching sarcasm, 
which is saved from the cynicism of situ- 
ations by the grace of humour. Of that 
he, in common with all successful carica- 
turists, has a store abundant, as his draw- 
ings of famous men of letters show. 
The one of Heine depicts Gulbransson's 
confrere seated on a sofa — seat of hon- 
our, if you please ! — piping in willy-nilly 
complaisance. Even the pug on the pil- 
low sleeps an untroubled sleep, he little 
guessing, and Heine little caring, that the 
master is about to be marched off to gaol ! 

Of course Heine could not overlook 
the attention shown him by the affable 
Gulbransson; therefore he returned the 
compliment with another, paying Gul- 
bransson in his own coin by depicting him 
gleeful over his graphic joke. 

The Frenchmen Paul Hervieu and 
Marcel Prevost are least in Gulbrans- 
son's province, just as to the German in- 

tellect the French sort seems to be like 
lace in its fabric, but the northmen, 
Bjornson and Ibsen and Brandes, he hits 
on the nail, and Gorky and Tolstoy as 
well. You cannot be angry with him for 
any of these, they are funnier than un- 
kind. As for D Annunzio, probably Gul- 
bransson never saw him — I doubt if he 
has seen any of the others yet, and though 
there is little about this caricature, if 
anything, that is portraiture. It seems to 
be almost a pictorial analysis of D'An- 
nunzio's work, of his writing as the Ital- 
ians know it and as the Germans know it, 
since translators have made it quite proper 
for American readers, imagining us less 
tolerant, and it is a hopeful sign that we 
are. Gulbransson's portrait of D'An- 
nunzio seems to indicate clearly that he 
is with us here. 

Surely Gulbransson reads deeply in the 
volume of man's foibles and follies, his 
faith and his fancies, his hopes and his 
humiliations, and alas for whom he 
awaits, pen in hand, for that one shall be 
routed by the wrath of his ink-pot! 

Gardner Teall. 

The personification of the stolidly solid 




STEDMAN disproved 
the oft-quoted saying, 
that hath many 
friends hath none," for 
Jj he was a man exceeding 
rich in friendships. Nor 
were these merely so-called "literary 
friendships," which make a showing in 
black and white. Among his real friends 
was Eugene Field, whose early literary 
productions at once attracted Stedman's 
notice. He was among the first to dis- 
cover the "Lakeside poet," for despite his 
necessary absorption in business and in 
his literary tasks Mr. Stedman had always 
an ear and voice for every new and prom- 
ising aspirant for literary laurels. His 
pen too was ever at the service of the 
newcomer, and in this instance Stedman 
wrote to his Boston publisher suggesting 
that the other communicate with this new 
poet and daring wit, and ask him for a 
book of verse, which he considered his 
strong point. 

The suggestion resulted in the publica- 
tion of Field's first little book, entitled 
Culture's Garland, for which the author 
was most desirous that Stedman should 
write the introduction, the very incon- 
gruity of such a combination seeming to 
please the western poet exceedingly. 
Some amusing correspondence followed 
which may be prefaced by Field's first 
response to a letter from the publisher 
in question: 

Dsak Mr. T : I hardly know what I 

ought to say in answer to your courteous letter 
of the 23d ultimo. I am just enough of a 
Yankee to be a long time making up my mind 
when once in doubt. However, it is but fair that 

you should know what bothers me. I am not 
troubled about my verse, for I made up my 
mind a long time ago that my verse never did 

and never could amount to a ! I wrote to 

Mr. O at the earnest solicitation of numer- 
ous unwise friends, and the consequence was 
that the mere suggestion of printing a tome 
of my alleged poetry precipitated an old and 
prosperous publisher into bankruptcy! I tell 
you this because you ought to be warned 
against inviting the dreadful bufferings of fate 
which inevitably follow a dalliance with my 
Muse. And now let us drop the painful sub- 
ject of verse. I have written about forty short 
stories (or shall 1 call them sketches) in the 
last two years. I really have a good opinion 
of them, and this opinion has been encouraged 
by the favour with which these tales have been 
received by readers — for you must know that 
nearly all the stories have appeared in print 
I would like to see these tales in book form. 
I believe that they would sell. Of their merit 
I have no doubt, but whether they would strike 
you as marketable — why, that is a question. I 
have spent much time on them, and if you were 
to indicate a desire to publish them I would 
want to rewrite them over again — for just as a 
mother is anxious to have her little children 
appear decently and properly, so do I want to 
have these children of mine to go out into the 
world apparelled as neatly as my intellectual 
purse can afford. I have here, we will say, 
forty short stories, aggregating 125,000 words; 
do you think that it would pay you to publish 
them? They are stories for young and old; 
perhaps I should say that they are (most of 
them) child's stories so written as to interest 
the old folk. I have made them as simple as 
I could, and in many of them the fairy element 
predominates. In two of them there are a 
number of lyrics, humorous and serious. A 

1 48 


book of this kind could be illustrated with great 
effect — but I would want to suggest the illus- 
trations. Now I can send you a part of or all 
these tales, if you think that you would care to 
print a work of this character. But, as I have 
said, I would like to rewrite all, even though 
in their present shape they might be acceptable 
to you. I send you a schedule which may assist 
you in making up your mind as to whether you 
care about reading the tales, and although it 
may be rather hazardous, I inclose a copy of a 
letter written by Mr. Hawthorne. Let me 
thank you for your kind note, and believe me, 
dear sir, 

Very truly yours, 

Eugene Field. 

Chicago, April 2, 1887. 

Mr. Field's diagram of the forty stories 
referred to above is extremely decorative. 
It is made out in four columns ; the first, 
in blue ink, contains the names of stories ; 
the second, in red, the number of words in 
each ; the third, in green, the sub-titles of 
the tales, while the fourth, in blue again, 
designates whether the story is "pathetic," 
"gay," "lively," etc. 

This letter having been forwarded to 
Stedman called forth the following : 

I had to clap a virtuoso-glass over this 
damnably exquisite handwriting of the great 
apostle of culture in the Porkopolis by the 
Lake. But it was worth the trouble. 

I did and do strongly advise you to take a 
book from this gentleman. I have seen scores 
of short sketches, skits, humorous poems, 
satires, etc., by him, all of which were original 
and "taking." I do not know whether he is the 
author of the famous "Lakeside Musings" — if 
so, so much the better. My notion is a vague 
one. But I think it defined itself into this — 
that humour was the business-card, and that 
you could get out a collection of his humorous 
sketches and verses, with an odd and effective 
title, and make a hit for both author and pub- 
lisher. That would lead the way for other and 
more serious books. At the same time, pathos 
is an attribute of every true humourist, and 
very likely you could make just as good a first 
book of a selection (say one-half) from the 
rather staggering list of tales which he sends 
you. I am quite sick to-day, from prolonged 
negotiations and overwork. I fear my letters 
will be brief and few to you for some time to 

A second letter from Field was for- 

warded by the publisher to Stedman, in 
which Field says : 

I send to-day the last batch of the clippings, 
and among them you will find two handsome 
engravings, which I have executed for your 
special (private) edification. The portrait of 
myself I made from a photograph taken in 
1880; I look more like Dante now than I did 
then. In this packet I enclose one little story, 
which should be put with the other stories L 
sent you. I had forgotten all about it, and 
found it in the old file. In this lot of stuff you 
will find a criticism of the Wagner opera, Die 
Walkiire; when it appeared it made quite a 
stir among folk here. But I am heartily sick 
of this whole scheme. Why not print the 
genteel stories and let this flubdub remain un- 
discovered until I am in heaven with Mr. Sted- 
man and you? Then your grandson (Eugene 
Field Ticknor) can announce the discovery of 
genuine old Field manuscripts — the critics will 
dispute — the public will go wild — fifty editions 
of the great work will be struck off — the de- 
mand will increase in volume and ferocity, etc. 
Ought we not to make this sacrifice for pos- 

May 22, 1887. 

At the head of this letter Field has 
drawn a caricature of himself with a 
wreath of sausages around his head ; un- 
derneath he has written, "The Chicago 

Of this Stedman writes : 

I have read Eugene Field's letter with the 
aid of a magnifier. 

Now look here! I should just spoil a good 
thing if I tampered in any way with Mr. F.'s 
name, plan, selections. No one but he can 
name the book. If he chooses to invent a 
dozen names, you and I can recommend our 
choice of the lot That's all. 

As I said, I have no doubt his pathetic work 
is equal to, or better than, his humorous. But 
I would not advise him or you to get out a 
first book without an admixture of the humor- 
ous and quaint sketches and "skits," for which 
he has a professional and popular reputation. 
After such a book shall have been pushed to a, 
wide sale, he can bring out just what he 

Did you or did you not ask him if he wrote 
the "Lakeside Musings" — such as the enclosed? 
I know that "A" is by E. F., and suspect that 
"B" is. Please return the two latter. 

If any one would give me half as good a hint 




in stocks as I have given you in re £. Field, I 
should make a fortune, and not expect him to 
"run the deal." Of course I can't have any- 
thing to do with making up his book. It is at 
the opposite pole from my work. 

Indeed, for a year to come I am mortgaged, 
and shall write you as seldom as possible. Fpr 
a month I have been trying, in the face of 
poverty and sickness, to preface my supplement 
to the Victorian Poets, for which the printers 
are clamouring — and haven't a line ready yet. 
Work is required on our Library of American 
Literature, as you know. It is doubtful if I 
shall spend three days at New Castle this 
summer. Consider me dead. 

Field having been informed of Sted- 
man's interest in his project of publishing 
in book form a collection of his sketches 
and verse, set his heart upon having the 
other write a preface for such a produc- 
tion, and Stedman's refusal to comply 
with his suggestion was a source of keen 
disappointment to him, which, however, 
he concealed under various amusing dis- 
quisitions upon the subject. 

The following communication to his 
publisher was penned in June, 1887 : 

... So far as the business part of our joint 
book is concerned, I feel no interest at all. I 
do not look upon my heaven-given talents with 
the sordid eyes of the average Chicago litter- 
ateur. If Mr. Stedman and you think that 
from the mass of erudition I have wafted 
Bostonwards you can expiscate enough de- 
sirable matter for a tome — why, I am going to 
let you have your own way, and I'm not going 
to worry about the business part of the scheme. 
I hope you will let me know when the book 
is likely to appear, as I shall be hunting a 
cyclone hole about that time. Perhaps you 
may remember what that humorous old Aris- 
tophanes once said to Critobolus, his Athenian 
publisher : 

* /rf $vv fop Tucvop avd <pop 2redpav 
Bvt if Oar poon ainreapf ovr bear 

It( 10 to 1 Oar Ifi a foadftav 
BeQope 6q vt%T anpivy pofiivc vtar. 

It's fun for Ticknor and for Stedman; 

But if that book appears out 'vest 
It's 10 to 1 that I'm a dead man 

Before the next spring robins nest. 

I am strongly of the impression that you 
ought to inveigle Mr. Stedman into writing an 
introduction to that book. I have a positive 

conviction that his apology for the affair would 
be the most humorous thing between the covers. 

A week later Field pursues the same 
line of suggestion: 

. . . If I had ever imagined that an edition 
de luxy of my work would be demanded, I 
most certainly would have preserved the orig- 
inal plates. It is true of all great geniuses 
(I should say "Genii!" The Chicago plural 
for "opus" is "opi"). I begin to see that they 
do not know when they really do a good thing. 
I am very anxious to know what Mr. Stedman 
has decided to do in the way of a preface or 
proem. I suspect that his regard for me is 
simply the cold, mercenary, sordid passion 
which the crocodile conceives for a succulent 
yellow dog; I have discovered that he does 
not mention me among his Victorious Poets. 

Stedman remaining inflexible, it was 
found advisable to secure the desired 
preface from Mr. Julian Hawthorne. In 
regard to this, the author of Culture's 
Garland writes a few days later : 

... I have despatched a letter to Haw- 
thorne upon the subject of the preface. It was 
not at all Christianly of Mr. Stedman to in- 
veigle me into this circus and then leave me 
to the mercy of the multitude. I would not 
treat him likewise. If he were to ask me to 
write a preface for any of his books, I would 
do it, and it would be the boss preface in Eng- 
lish literature, too. The plea that he hasn't 
the time to devote to it is a feeble one ; if I can 
write an able preface for his book in fifteen 
minutes, he ought to be able to write a fairly 
good one for mine in half an hour. 

A few days later he remarks : 

. . . Mr. Stedman need not be ashamed to 
write a preface for me. I'd have him know 
that a biographical sketch of myself appeared 
last winter in A. T. Andreas and Company's 
"Pictorial Chicago," Vol. III. It would have 
had my portrait, too, if I'd been willing to pay 
$50 for the boon. If Mr. Stedman is smart 
he will make himself solid with the brain and 
brawn of the West A lot of us young litter- 
ateurs will write the obituaries bye and bye. 
Or, if he prefers, I will write the preface and 
sign his name to it I fancy that I could say 
more pleasant things of myself than he could. 

Field's parting shot is contained in a 
letter dated June 22d of the same year : 

. . . Hawthorne writes me that he will 
undertake the preface, and I think it will be 
well to send him duplicate proofs, so that he 
may get some idea of what he is expected to 
say. . . . When you see Mr. Stedman you 
can tell him (unless you think it would en- 
tirety crush him) that I have expunged his 
name from the tablets of my memory. 

Eugene Field's delight at the appear- 
ance of his first little book was that of 
an 'enthusiastic schoolboy, but his atti- 
tude toward this early volume changed 
completely after the publication of his 
later works, and Culture's Garland was 
recalled by its author, who was then as 
keen in his desire to destroy all available 
copies as he had been to launch his first 
volume, for the preface of which he had 
wished to make Stedman responsible. 

The above correspondence regarding 
the question of a preface was itself a 
preface to the warm friendship between 
these two characteristically human and at 
the same time strikingly diverse types of 
literary men, who were held together by 
a close bond of fellowship, which was 
only severed by the death of Field in 1895. 

In December of that year, Edmund 
Clarence Stedman wrote a charmingly 
appreciative tribute to Eugene Field, 
whose suggestion regarding the penning 
of "obituaries" was ironically reversed. 
In this tribute he likens Field to "Shake- 
speare's Yorick. whose motley covered 
the sweetest nature and tenderest heart." 

1L 151 

He also describes Field as a "complex 
American with the obstreperous bizar- 
rerie of the frontier and the artistic deli- 
cacy of our oldest culture always at odds 
within him — ", but pronounces him 
"above all a child of nature, a frolic in- 
carnate, and just as lie would have been 
in any time and country." Stedman, 
moreover, refers to the time when Field 
put their friendship to one of those tests, 
which sooner or later he applied to all, 
the test of linking their names with some- 
thing utterly ludicrous and impossible, 
but to be published with all the solemn 
earmarks of verity. Such was the case 
in regard to Field's reception of Stedman 
in Chicago, in 1891. At that time the 
former prepared a humorous announce- 
ment of the coming of the "poet-critic," 
followed by a detailed account of the ex- 
traordinary procession which was to 
serve as escort upon Stedman's arrival ; 
this programme was eagerly copied by 
the New York papers and filled the ex- 
pected guest with apprehension so that 
he hardly dared to alight from the train 
upon reaching Chicago. It is needless to 
say that when Stedman arrived he found 
only the delinquent himself awaiting him. 
And this test, like many others, in no way 
loosened the strong bond of friendship 
which was forged at the time when Sted- 
man refused to pen the introduction for 
Culture's Garland. 

Caroline Ticknor. 


We hear no step, but from her brown hands tossed 
Green blades of grass and tender flowers are spread ; 

From soulless clods stung through with winter frost 
New life comes forth divinely heralded. 

Benjamin F. Leggett. 



jO one who has watched 
flthe development of our 
Bmagazinc literature can 
flhelp being impressed by 
■ the number of women 
Bconcerned therein, and 

flalso hy the high average 

of their work, their diversity of talent, 
and their general literary skill. And this 
is peculiar to America, for, although in 
France the short story has reached a de- 
gree of excellence unsurpassed elsewhere, 
yet it is the work of men ; there are few 
women who have sought that method of 
literary expression. And while England 
has had a continuous line of notable wo- 
men writers since the days of Jane 
Austen, yet it was as novelists that they 
gained their fame, there are hardly any 
short story writers among them. 

Of course there have been, in both 
countries, exceptions to this rule, but the 
short stories of the French women are 
more like novelettes, while in England it 
seems to be only writers associated with 
a certain locality, such as Jane Barlow, 
M. E. Francis, and the clever authors of 
The Irish R. M. to whom the short 
story is a natural mode of expression. 
The Englishwomen need space in which 
to mature their ideas; it is impossible to 
imagine Mrs. Humphry Ward or Lucas 
Malet condensing into the limits of a 
short story anything they may have to 
say, for their theme is the development 
of character through a long series of 

In this country, on the contrary, there 
has been, during the last fifty years, an 
array of women short story writers 
which, beginning with authors like Rose 
Terry Cooke, Harriet Prescott Spofford, 
and Elizabeth Stuart Phelps, has con- 
tinued through names of varied degrees 
of excellence, down to those of women 
like Mrs. Deland and Edith Wharton, 
whose only similarity is the sterling 
quality of their work. 

Women ought to be among the best 
writers of short stories, especially of 

those modelled upon the French style, the 
story of character rather than that of 
incident, the successful seizure of an 
emotional moment, of a phase of thought ; 
and there are writers who, like Mrs, 
Wharton and Miss Cather, are particu- 
larly good in that line. But it is more in 
character study that the American women 
excel, and for which material is offered 
them in the great diversity of type found 
in this country, material which has been 
so admirably dealt with in Alice Brown's 
studies of New England life, Myra 
Kelly's sketches of Jewish school children 
and Ruth McEnery Stuart's silhouettes 
of Southern life. 

The great number of periodicals pub- 
lished here, with their incessant demand 
for short stories, is perhaps responsible 
for the number of women who are now 
writing them, but it does not account for 
the high quality of their work. Ever 
since the publication in 1863 of Mrs. 
Spofford's remarkably good volume of 
stories, The Amber Gods, there has 
been a long line of women writers, fully 
equal to the men of their calling, and 
those who are coming to the front now 
are keeping up the standard. 

Among the best of these younger writ- 
ers is Miss Willa Sibert Cather, a West- 
ern woman by birth, who not long ago 
gave up a position as a school-teacher in 
Pittsburg in order to accept one on the 
staff of McClure's Magazine. 

In her book of short stories, infelici- 
tously named The Troll Garden, Miss 
Cather shows a wonderful aptness in 
seizing a decisive moment and, with a 
few touches, deducing from it a whole 
character, sometimes an entire life. Such 
a story is "The Sculptor's Funeral," 
where the body of the great artist is 
brought back to his native place for 
burial, and where we team from the talk 
of the watchers, uncomprehending men to 
whom the palm on the coffin means noth- 
ing, just what his early life was, what 
he had to struggle against, his weaknesses 
and his faults ; and after Jim Laird, once 



the sculptor's school friend, now the 
clever, unscrupulous, drunken lawyer, has 
risen to his defence, we know not only 
the character of the artist, but that of 
every man in the room. Such also is 
"A Death in the Desert," the story of 
the singer, dying at her brother's ranch in 
Wyoming, with the recollection of her 
brilliant career, her longing for New 
York and all that it represents to her, and 
her bitter memories of her fickle lover, all 
eating into her heart ; and such is the 
story of "Paul," the young degenerate 
with a sort of inarticulate longing for 
beauty which he gratifies by means of -a 
week of luxury at the Waldorf on stolen 
money; all of these show the author's 
keen perception of emotional value as 
well as her skill in character drawing. 

Miss Edith Wyatt is another Western 
woman whose work is on a very high 
plane, as she adds a sense of humour to 
her great capacity for sympathetic analy- 
sis, and in her book of short sketches, 
Every Man His Own Way, she has 

shown us how much there is of real in- 
terest in the lives of the most prosaic 
people. Her locale is Chicago and its 
neighbourhood and her characters the 
kind of people of whom George Ade 
writes — typical Americans, in that no 
country but this could produce them, 
frankly uncultivated, mid-Western and 
not ashamed. There is Hoffman, the city 
alderman, a saloon-keeper by trade and a 
"square-dealing and innocent boodler" in 
his civic capacity ; there is Fred Einstein, 
the big, exuberant, affectionate Jew 
Sigurd Bhaer, the German flute-player 
Ham Kinney, the professional bicycle- 
rider — these are the people of whom Miss 
Wyatt writes, and whom we are perhaps 
a little surprised to find so interesting. 
Besides her comprehension of these 
every-day mortals Miss Wyatt has an 
equally keen appreciation of that con- 
scientiously cultivated class of whom 



Richard Elliott, whose "test of life is 
refinement," is a fair example, and she 
even has the audacity to stand up for the 
western R and to poke a little fun at 
that fetish of the half-cultivated, the 
board A. 

Mary Stewart Cutting has published at 
least three volumes of short stories, one 
of which, Little Stories of Courtship, 

guage and thinks the same thoughts that 
she does. In "Henry" we have the shilly- 
shallying lover in a plainer class of life, 
and the story of his discomfiture by his 
more manly rival is told with delightful 
vigour and energy. "Cinderella's Shoes," 
with its unexpected climax, is the story 
of a woman who, born to leisure, finds 
herself obliged to earn her own living. 


is far above the average both in excellence 
and variety. In "Paying Guests" we 
have the well-born, cultivated woman, 
striving to make a living by taking board- 
ers, and proving, by reason of her refine- 
ment, utterly unable to cope with the 
vulgar women who compose the larger 
part of her household, and we welcome 
her release, which comes by her marriage 
with the man who speaks the same Ian- 

She attends a reception given by an old 
school-friend, and is shocked to find many 
of her contemporaries grown old before 
their time, dull, and uninterested in any- 
thing outside of the limits of their own 
narrow lives. She is amazed to find that 
the life of leisure which has always 
seemed to her so desirable has proved in 
so many cases a stultifying influence, and 
she realises that it is her work and her 



association with workers that has kept 
her young. 

In her Stories of Suburban Life 
Mrs. Cutting has not succeeded so well, 
although she has given us the atmosphere 
of sympathy and family interest which 
makes the bright side of suburban life. 

Sad Story" is only an account of the 
void left in a small community by the 
death of a little boy, but it is told with a 
touching feeling and sympathy that sug- 
gest a personal experience. 

Mary Shipman Andrews, a daughter of 
the late rector of Christ Church, New 

It is well to have a friendly interest in 
one's neighbours, but difficulties with ser- 
vants and troubles with dilatory plumbers 
are not in themselves interesting. In one 
story, however, the author has touched a 
note of pathos with great skill. "Not a 

York, and sister of a recent West Point 
chaplain, shows the influence of both the 
Church and the army in her last book of 
short stories, The Militants, for most of 
her heroes are either clergymen or sol- 
diers. With one exception these are 



stories of incident, but in "Crowned With been published in separate form, and they 

Glory" there is that introspective note so illustrate very well two different aspects 

often found in the American short story, of lier skill. "The Good Samaritan" is an 

A mother is looking through the papers account of the adventures of a young the- 

of her young son who was killed at Sail ological student in trying to take home an 

Juan and finds the letters of two women, intoxicated friend, and is a most amusing 

one, a gay, shallow young girl to whom description of the Iatter's vagaries. He 

he was engaged, the other, an older takes a refreshing nap on a baggage 

woman of deeper feelings and maturer truck at the ferry, he offers his seat in 

mind, whom he evidently loved. There 
are also a few lines of farewell, unad- 
dressed, written the night before the 
battle ; for whom are they intended ? This 
is left to the decision of the reader, but 
this is the only story of Mrs. Andrews 
with that note of uncertainty which was 
at one time so common in fiction. 

Two of Mrs. Andrews's stories have 

the elevated train to a lady and remains 
politely standing in the half empty car 
until his destination is reached, and when 
he has got as far as his own door, turns 
back to telegraph his impending arrival 
to his family lest the shock of his arrival 
be too great. All these performances, 
executed with the ceremonious gravity of 
intoxication, are described by the author 


with a sympathetic humour seldom elic- 
ited from women by a display of inebri- 

In "The Perfect Tribute" pathos, not 
humour, is the informing spirit, the cen- 
tral figure is that of Abraham Lincoln, 
and the scene, the death-bed of a young 
Confederate soldier in a hospital who, all 
unknowing who it is that sits at his bed- 
side, speaks with enthusiasm of the Get- 
tysburg speech, made the day before, pre- 
dicts that it will become a classic in the 
language, and dies with his hand in that 
of the great opponent of the cause for 
which he had given his young; life. 

; One of the many g"ood writers who 
have come to ns from the West is Juliet 
Wilbor Tompkins, who has bes»n for ten 
yfcars at least a contributor to magazines 
and at one time was the editor of The 
Puritan. Her stories are noticeable for 
their high level of interest ; they all have 
that quality of readableness so hard to 
define, so easy to recognise, and have 
variety of theme and character as well. 
There is the innocent little pair of variety 
artists whose sketch is so poor that an 
astute manager of vaudeville hires them 
for "chasers"; there is the young wife 


who suffers the pangs of disillusionment 
when she finds that her husband falls 
asleep over Pater, declines to read Plato 
aloud to her, and is more interested in 
automobiles than in the proper housing 
of the poor ; and there is the insignificant 
husband of the jwetess adored by young 
girls, who finally gives up $50,000 in 
order to cease from being known as the 
husband of Lucile Grant Parker and to 
assert himself a man among men. But 
best of all her recent stories is that mas- 
terpiece describing the young artist and 
his bride — the Lovclys, whose childlike 
innocence of business, entire disregard of 
other people's rights and willingness to 
take anything offered them, combined 
with their groat charm of manner, make 
them the glorified type of the eternal 

Anne O'llagan, whose name is always 
associated with good wnrk, is one of the 
many successful writers whose first 
sketches appeared in a newspaper. Her 
stories have great diversity, ranging in 
scene from the Western plains to the 
^Italian quarter in N'cw York, and varying 



in personnel from Joan Fletcher, the 
woman whose pride of race is her strong- 
est feeling, down through the political 
boss to the enlisted man in the ranks. She 
deals with emotions, as well as character, 
and one of the best of her recent stories is 
called "And Angels Came — ," in which a 
girl who has lost her lover by death is 
saved from a later unworthy marriage 
with a rich man by a chance encounter 
with a little old maid who belongs to "the 
shining company of those who keep un- 
sullied the early vision." 

Miss O'Hagan has humour as well as 
pathos; it is seen in her stories, but it 
pervades certain delightful little essays 
which are mostly given to considerations 
of the single versus the married life. 
This is a subject which offers every op- 
portunity for sentimental ism, but Miss 
O'Hagan is saved from this pitfall by her 
clear vision and good judgment. No one 
but a woman can appreciate at its full 
value her description of the compassion 
with which the married woman, no matter 
how commonplace her existence, always 
regards even the most brilliant and suc- 
cessful of spinsters, and there is a touch 
little short of genius in the author's ac- 


count of a lunch where, after listening 
spellbound to the adventures of a friend 
who, as a missionary in China, had partic- 
ipated in the Boxer troubles, and had 
become familiar with that wonderful crys- 
tallised civilisation, the married woman 
of the party regrets in perfect good faith 
that Estella should have had so little ex- 
perience of life, by which she meant that 
she had never married. 

Mrs. Wilson Woodrow is another 
Western woman whose work has been 
steadily growing in favour with the pub- 
lic since her first appearance as a writer. 
Perhaps the best of her short stories are 
those in which she has depicted the femi- 
nine side of life in a Colorado mining 
village, and in which the principal char- 
acter is one new in fiction, the Missioner. 
She does not let us forget that in Colorado 
women have political power, and that 
their votes are as liable to stray 
from purely patriotic paths as those of 

A year or more ago there appeared in 
one of the magazines a remarkably good 
story by Mary S. Watts, a name new to 
most readers. It was called "The Gate of 
the Seven Hundred Virgins" and was 


a story of smugglers in a little French 
seaport. It had the charm of originality, 
incident, and humour, and a finish quite 
remarkable for a first achievement. Since 
then two more stories from her pen have 
appeared ; "The North Road," a tale of 
highwaymen on the road between London 
and Edinburgh, and "The Voodoo 

Woman," a story of West Indian magic. 
The three are entirely different in scene, 
character, and incident, but each is so 
good in its way as to assure us that one 
of the latest recruits to the band of wo- 
men writers may be relied on to sustain 
the high quality of its work. 

It is not the writer's purpose to com- 


nient fully upon the work of those women 
who, in spite of their comparatively re- 
cent entry into the field of short-story 
writing, have already secured for them- 
selves a high position therein, nor is it 
possible to deal adequately, within the 

limits of this article, with the many clever 
writers with whose names the magazines 
have made Us familiar. There is Her- 
minie Tempteton, with her sketches of 
Irish life and character: Eliza Calvert 
Hall, whose "Aunt Jane" is such a de- 



lightf ul personality, and George Madden 
Martin, who has caused many of us to 
re-live our happy, foolish youth in the 
person of Emmy Lou. And there are 
writers like Mary Heaton Vorse, Zona 
Gale, Olivia Dunbar, Elizabeth Jordan, 
and Beatrix Lloyd, whose work is con- 
stantly to be met with in the pages of the 

The old accusation that women have no 
sense of humour is fully refuted by a 
glance at the writings of many of these 
women. Besides the atmosphere of gentle 
humour that pervades the work of Miss 
O'Hagan and Miss Tompkins, the latter 
has done some clever burlesques, one in 
particular which hit off the peculiarities 
of the epigrammatic school of fiction, 
having attracted much attention. Mrs. 
Wilson Woodrow is a frequent contribu- 
tor to Life, and her humorous work is 

fully up to the standard of that periodi- 
cal. Both Josephine Daskam Bacon and 
Christine Terhune Herrick have made 
merry at the expense of the advanced 
method of bringing up children, and the 
very foundation of Myra Kelly's success 
is her power of showing us the funny side 
of the foreign children who throng our 
public schools. 

The short story has always been popu- 
lar in this country, and from Edgar Poe's 
fantastic imagery down through Haw- 
thorne's spiritual symbolism to Henry 
James's intellectual exercises our best 
writers have not disdained this form of 
literary expression. Of later years it has 
devolved largely upon women to keep up 
the national reputation, a task in which 
they are acquitting themselves with great 

Mary K. Ford. 


G. S. Layard's "Suppressed Plates" 

To the enthusiastic bibliophile the 
words, "with the rare suppressed plate 
to be found in but few copies," are as 
appealing as was the forbidden fruit of 
the tree of knowledge to our first parents. 
Whether it is better to feast on the green 
fruit of an author, as presented in the 
first editions of his works, or upon the 
ripe fruit of his genius, the results of his 
corrections, revisions, and additions, is 
perhaps a question. But as some prefer 
the former and others the latter, we have 
no quarrel to pick with either. 

Mr. George Somes Layard, the Eng- 
lish author and reviewer, has for years 
pursued the avocation of book-hunting 
and print-collecting. He has recorded 
some of the knowledge thus acquired in 
a very entertaining and instructive vol- 
ume* recently published. In it the 
author discusses not only book illustra- 

♦Suppressed Plates, Wood Engravings, etc 
Together with Other Curiosities Germane 
thereto; being an Account of Certain Matters 
Peculiarly Alluring to the Collector. By 

tions but plates separately issued, and 
devotes considerable space to adapted, or, 
as he very appropriately calls them, pal- 
impsest plates ; that is, plates which have 
been entirely changed from their original 
purpose by burnishing out certain por- 
tions, and adapting them to their new 
purpose by re-engraving the erased sec- 
tions. The volume treats a new subject, 
in an interesting way. It appeals pri- 
marily to bookmen and it is to the por- 
tion treating of book illustrations that 
these remarks will mainly apply. 

Plates have been suppressed in books 
for various reasons. Among the most 
important of these are plates discarded 
for moral reasons, those lacking artistic 
merit, those not adequately illustrating 
the text for which they were designed, 
and those of a libellous character. The 
reader will find in this volume no descrip- 
tions of plates which have been dis- 
carded for the first of these reasons, how- 
ever interesting they might be, as the 
author explicitly states that it is not his 

George Somes Layard. London: Adam and 
Charles Black. New York: The Macmillan 
Company. 1907. Sm. 4to, xiii, 254 pp. 


tion, in which the illustrations are con- 
fined to full-page plates. In this case it 
is a little uncertain whether the plate was 
really suppressed, whether its omission 
was due to some accident to the block, or 
whether Thackeray himself was not so 
disgusted with the brutal frankness ot 
the picture when he saw it in print that he 
insisted on its removal. It has been 
stated that "libellous proceedings {sic) 
were threatened on account of its striking 
likeness to a member of the aristocracy," 
by whom was undoubtedly meant the 
Third Marquis of Hertford. Whether 
true or not, such a statement having once 
gained currency would, of course, add 
piquancy to the subject and tend to in- 
crease the profits of such booksellers as 



intention to make his book a devil's 
tory to illustrations which have be< 
pressed for indecency. 

Numerous instances are given 
suppression of plates in books wri 
well-known authors. 

Dickens says he was thrown 
"horror and agony not to be expi 
when he first saw the plate which Lei 
had designed for his Christmas sto: 
Battle of Life, The artist made t 
take of supposing that Michael A 
had taken part in the elopement, 
troduced him in the scene repre 
Marion's flight. The author, thin 
the pain it would cause the artist 
the plate cancelled, allowed it to 
and it still continues to appear, 
failing to be a suitable illustration 

The wood-engraving of the Marqui 
Steyne, which appeared in the monthly 
parts of Thackeray's Vanity Fair (p. 336) , 
was omitted in subsequent issues of the 
work, though it reappears in the later 
editions of the novel, published by Smith, 
Elder and Company. It is not to be 
found, however, in the biographical edi- 


The plate in 

■'a tomb 

fill the gap caused by the suicide of 
Robert Seymour, the illustrator of the 
first number of Pickwick. Unfamiliar 
with the process of etching, Buss under- 
took the work after much solicitation on 
the part of the publishers, and employed 
a professional etcher to make the plates 
from his designs. This part of the work, 
unfortunately for him, was poorly done 
and Buss's engagement with the pub- 
lishers was promptly broken. Several 
artists entered into competition for the 
vacancy, among them being Thackeray 
and "Phiz" (Hablot K. Browne), the 
latter sending a sample plate ("Mr. 
Winkle's First Shot"), which was not 
then used but which now appears in the 
national edition of that work (1:110) 
recently published by Chapman and Hall. 
That Buss might have proved an accept- 
able illustrator is shown by two plates 
("Mr. Pickwick at the Review" and 
"Mr. Wardle and his Friends under the 
Influence of the Salmon"), which he 
afterwards executed with a view, perhaps, 
of making, as did several other artists, a 
set of extra illustrations for the work, 
to be sold separately. These two plates 
are also to be found in the national edi- 
tion (i :6o and 132). 

It may not be generally known that a 
portrait of Dickens is also to be num- 

bered among suppressed plates. In 1837 
a portrait of the great novelist was pub- 
lished by Churton. This plate was signed 
"Phiz," but as it was promptly repudiated 
by the chartered bearer of that name, the 
plate was at once withdrawn from publi- 
cation, and is now, in consequence, much 
sought after by collectors. 

"Phiz" illustrated several other works 
by Dickens, among them the Strange 
Gentleman, published in 1837, for which 
he prepared the exceedingly rare etched 
frontispiece. The plate has disappeared, 
for what reason no one seems to know. 
Master Humphreys Clock was also il- 
lustrated by "Phiz" ; and while that artist 
is under consideration, it may not be 
amiss to call attention to the fact, not 
noted by Mr. Layard, though germane to 
his subject, that Browne prepared several 
plates which were not used when the book 
appeared in print. Thomson, his biog- 
rapher, reproduces three such il lustra' 
tions in his Life and Works of Habldt K. 

One of the most interesting of the 
numerous cases described by Mr. Layard 
is that of the "Rose and Oliver" plates in 
Oliver Twist. This novel was published 
serially in Bentley's Magazine, begin- 
ning with the number for February, 1837, 
and concluding with that for March, 



1839. The work was illustrated by 
George Cruikshank. Several months be- 
fore the work had run its course as a 
serial, the novel with its illustrations had 
been completed and was published in 
three volumes, November 9, 1838. The 
latter part of this three-volume edition is, 
therefore, the earliest issue of all that por- 
tion which had not previously appeared in 
Bentley's Magazine. 

In this three-volume edition appeared 
the plate known as the fireside scene, in 
which Rose Maylie and Oliver are seated 
before an open grate. Dickens did not 
see this plate until the work was on the 
eve of publication, the illustrations for 
the last volume having been hastily ex- 
ecuted "in a lump." To this fireside scene 
Dickens so strongly objected that it had 
to be cancelled. The publication of the 
book could not, of course, be delayed; 
so copies with the objectionable plate 
were distributed until the new one could 
be prepared and printed. Hence, in the 
three-volume edition, we have the sup- 
pressed plate, and in the serial number, 
containing the same matter, instead of the 
cancelled plate, which we should naturally 
expect to find in the "original parts," we 
have the one which took its place. 

Before finally cancelling the fireside 
scene, Cruikshank seems to have worked 
it over, putting into it a large amount of 
added work, by which the tone of the 
plate is rendered much darker. No doubt 
a proof of the retouched plate was taken 
and submitted to Dickens, and again re- 
jected. A copy of the plate in this second 
state was in the Bruton Collection; and 
if any others exist, they must be of the 
utmost rarity. 

For the fireside scene was substituted 
a plate representing Rose Maylie and 
Oliver at Agnes's tomb. Singularly, 
however, this latter plate is also to be 
found in two states. In the first, Rose is 
dressed in a light gown, with a dark 
shawl, or lace fichu, thrown over her 
shoulders; in the second state, the plate 
has been touched up and the gown 
changed into a black one. Mr. Layard 
gives both the suppressed and the sub- 
stituted plates, each in its first and second 
state ; but in the national edition only the 
first state of the suppressed plate and the 
second state of its substitute are given. 

The book closes with a chapter on 
"adapted" or "palimpsest" plates. In the 
days of woodcuts, copperplate engrav- 
ing, and etching, much more time was 
required to prepare illustrations for the 
press than at the present day, when proc- 
ess work has almost entirely superseded 
the older methods of illustration. It 
sometimes happened, however, even in 
those days, that prompt measures were 
necessary to counteract the effect of some 
cartoon or pictorial satire. In such a 
case, an old plate was often taken and so 
changed by burnishing out certain por- 
tions and re-engraving them that it 
could be made to answer its new purpose, 
and the lampooner be confounded with a 
retort while the subject was still fresh in 
the public mind. It is to such plates as 
these that the very proper name of "pal- 
impsest plates" has been given. This 
phase of the subject has been illustrated 
by a number of fine examples showing 
the plates in their different states. 

Among these are three different states 
of the original engraving by Pierre Lom- 
bart after the made-up portrait of 
Charles I. on horseback, purporting to be 
a Van Dyke. This same plate has been 
treated by Whitman, in his Print Collec- 
tor's Handbook, London, 1903, where 
two additional states are given. 
^ Mr. Layard's work contains more than 
sixty plates, and illustrations in the text, 
the two being about equally divided. He 
treats in a most entertaining manner of 
a subject which cannot fail to be of the 
greatest interest to every ardent book- 
hunter, print-collector, and artist. It is 
to be hoped that the work will meet with 
the success which it deserves, and that its 
author will be encouraged to publish a 
second and much enlarged edition. 

George Watson Cole. 


Mr. Traubel's "With Walt 
Whitman in Camden"* 

In the two volumes which Mr. Traubel 
has now given us is contained a day-by- 
day record of seven months in the life of 

♦With Walt Whitman in Camden. Vol- 
ume II. By Horace Traubel. New York: 
D. Appleton and Company. 



— fir*. 2*++> &Z 

^t^> 9*~~ f 

>-. **. 



Walt Whitman, from March 28 to Octo- 
ber 31, 1888. It is reported that a number 
of additional volumes exist in manuscript. 
The books already published form, I be- 
lieve, a document without parallel. Mr. 
Traubel has something more than the 
ordinary disciple's devotion to a master. 
He is so sure of his hero that he has set 
down everything that came to his hand 
without a sign of discrimination or criti- 
cism — the bad with the good, the end- 
lessly trivial with the significant, the 
mean with the important, Whitman's 
vanity, egotism, vulgarity, littlenesses, as 
well as his magnanimity, humanity, 
clarity of vision. Consequently we have 
in these volumes a huge and amorphous 
diary, an omnium gatherum of Whit- 
man's talk on every subject under the sun, 
interspersed with letters and other docu- 
ments injected into the record as they 
happened to come to the surface in the 
litter of his room in Mickle Street, Cam- 
den. Mr. Traubel is not an editor but a 
scribe. He has left the reader to do his 
own editing. Boswell's Johnson shows, 
by comparison, a rigorously selective 
hand. It is the Boswellian method of bi- 
ography carried to its extreme. It is 

hardly, even, in the restricted sense, a 

For all this Mr. Traubel has been and 
will be much criticised. Undoubtedly he 
might, by judicious selection, have com- 
piled a remarkably interesting book deal- 
ing with Whitman's literary opinions. On 
all reasonable grounds of precedent, of 
taste and fitness, this is what he should 
have done. For justification of his ac- 
tual course one can only fall back on the 
most frankly subjective reasons. Per- 
sonally I am glad that the experiment has 
been tried of putting to paper, as fully 
and indiscriminately as seems possible, 
the daily life and talk of a man — and a 
man great enough, with all reservations 
made, to be representative. And in the 
actual result, despite enormous masses of 
the irrelevant, I find something curiously 
interesting. Others may not agree with 
me; they may find the man obscured 
under this mass of detail of his talk. I 
shall not attempt to justify the personal 

Yet even those who would have pre- 
ferred to have their selecting done for 
them can by searching find here much 
that is worth while. The most unliterary 

1 66 



J -& 

C «* 


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of writers, Whitman was a catholic 
reader, and his judgments of men and 
books are often illuminating. They may 
be picked at random from these pages: 
Of Emerson: "He was our one man to 
do a particular job wholly on his own 
account." "Dana has a hissing, hating 
side, that I don't like at all — it goes 
against my grain — but it is not the chief 
thing in the man, and when his total is 
made up cuts only a small figure." 
"Browning is in some respects utterly 
free — free not to explain: free to put 
down his statement where it may be seen 
and then let the world find its own way 
to a meaning — free of the desire to be at 
once or ever understood." "Sheridan 
was in many respects our soldier of sol- 
diers — was the most dashing of the lot — 
though as I sit here nowadays I am won- 
dering if the whole soldier business is not 
cursed beyond palliation." (A character- 
istic comment, that last.) "Blake is great 
— very, very — and is not to be imitated: 
Blake began and ended in Blake." Of 
Sheridan again : "He was in essentials a 

genius : he had almost phenomenal direct- 
ness, and genius is almost a hundred per 
cent, directness — nothing more." "Nor- 
way has made her best men much bigger 
than her own size — has made them men 
of world-dimensions : Ibsen, Bjornson, 
the others." "Conway is always writing 
. . . seemed intended for a better fate 
but some screw got loose in the machinery 
and the result, though not a dead failure, 
was not what I call the right sort of suc- 
cess." "Wilde . . . has extraordinary 
brilliancy of genius with perhaps rather 
too little root in eternal soils." "Carlyle's 
very existence was an insult to the Al- 
mighty — a slap in the face of the uni- 
verse." (This in spite of his great ad- 
miration for Carlyle.) "George Eliot 
was a great, gentle soul, lacking sun- 

These pronouncements are perhaps 
less characteristic of their subjects than of 
Whitman himself— of his ideas and his 
direct, vivid manner of expressing them. 
This does not reduce their value. It is no 
longer necessary to protest that Whitman 



is one of the men of our country who de- 
mand to be taken most largely into ac- 
count. His egotism, as it appears in these 
pages, is also characteristic. Sometimes it 
is the egotism of a rather small vanity, 
but on the whole it is the egotism of a 
big man, healthily conscious of himself 
and the importance of his work. No man 
was ever better able to wait for recogni- 
tion. "I do not look for a vast audience 
— for great numbers of endorsers, ab- 
sorbers — just now — perhaps not even 
after awhile." Evidently his democracy 
was not altogether founded on a false 
premise. "I always say that it is signifi- 
cant when a woman accepts me." "I had, 
I may say, an unusual capacity for stand- 
ing still, rooted on a spot, at a rest, for a 
long spell, to ruminate — hours in and 
out, sometimes." "I don't mind the fel- 
lows who say without a tremor: 'Here, 
damn you, Walt Whitman, what do you 
mean by all this nonsense. To hell with 
you, Walt Whitman : to hell with you ! to 
hell with you V That don't sound bad — 
on the contrary it sounds very good — it 
is tonic." "I am not a saint— have never 
been guilty of setting up for a saint. I 
find some of my friends — some of the ar- 
dent eulogists — making very many claims 
for me which I would not make for my- 
self. Neither do I feel that I am such an 
awful sinner: I have made mistakes — 
many of them : led an average human life : 
not too good, not too bad — just a so-so 
sort of life." These confessions, which 
have the ring of truth, show how healthy- 
minded the man was. The book is not 
all triviality. 

The net result of this volume is not to 
overturn any accepted judgments of 
Whitman the man. It shows us the 
figure we have known from other books 
— most of all from his own — only filling 
in details and giving the close, first-hand 
view that means intimacy. At least, so 
it affects one reader. Mr. Traubel's re- 
port of Whitman is the man himself, 
good and bad, interesting and tedious — 
all the qualities that go to the making of 
a human being thrown at you indis- 
criminately, and only to be smoothed out 
and arranged into an artistic portrait by 
the exercise of care and patience. 

Edward Clark Marsh. 

Colonel Dodge's "Napoleon"* 

These two volumes, each containing 
about 750 pages, complete the elaborate 
military study of the greatest of all sol- 
diers, to which Colonel Dodge has de- 
voted many years. How strictly the his- 
tory is a military history may be seen 
from the sub-title which styles the work 
"A History of the Art of War." The 
third volume begins with the Peninsular 
War and continues to the end of the 
Russian campaign. The fourth and last 
volume leads us from the battle of 
Liitzen to Waterloo. 

It is for the professional soldier to es- 
timate rightly the value of Colonel 
Dodge's criticisms and comments upon 
the great Napoleonic campaigns. The 
thoroughness with which he has carried 
out his task is apparent even to the civil- 
ian reader. The volumes are supplied 
with a great number of maps and plans 
which illustrate the strategic and tactical 
operations. Colonel Dodge has brought to 
bear upon the problems the same meticu- 
lous industry which he applied - in his 
previous studies of Alexander, Hannibal, 
Caesar, and Gustavus Adolphus, whom, 
with Napoleon and Frederick the Great, 
he regards as the most illustrious soldiers 
of all time. 

Most readers will turn at once to 
Colonel Dodge's treatment of the Water- 
loo campaign, bearing in mind for pur- 
poses of comparison the elaborate history 
by Mr. John Holland Rose and the 
slighter works of Lord Roberts and 
Lord Wolseley. It will be remembered 
that Mr. Rose makes an elaborate argu- 
ment against the generally accepted be- 
lief that Napoleon in 181 5 was neither 
physically nor mentally the same man 
that he had been at Marengo and Ulm 
and Austerlitz. This contention by Mr. 
Rose is, of course, flattering to English 
national pride; for Englishmen like to 
think that Wellington met Napoleon on 
equal terms and conquered him when he 
was still master of all his marvellous fer- 
tility of resource and with his genius un- 

♦Napoleon. Great Captains Series. By 
Theodore Ayrault Dodge, U.S.A. Vols. III. 
and IV. Illustrated. Boston: Houghton, 
Mifflin and Company. 



impaired. Colonel Dodge, however, 
makes it once more plain that from the 
year 1807 the real Napoleon began to 
fade; that more and more his judgment 
became untrustworthy, that his old-time 
energy was sapped. He recalls again 
Napoleon's recurrent periods of lethargy, 
his carelessness about details, his failure 
to examine in person the condition of his 
enemy, and his neglect to give explicit 
instructions in writing as to movements 
which were crucial in their importance. 

There can be no doubt that in June, 
1815, he was the victim of a painful 
urinary disorder, and that, like his 
nephew, Napoleon III., during the 
Franco-Prussian War he often suffered 
exquisite pain when compelled to mount 
his horse and ride long distances. To 
these causes must be ascribed the succes- 
sion of delays in carrying out his plans. 
No one of these delays was in itself im- 
portant ; but the comble undoubtedly gave 
the victory to his two opponents. Had 
Ney seized Quatre Bras directly after the 
defeat of the Prussians, there can be no 
doubt that the English and the Prussian 
armies- would have been driven so far 
apart that they would have been unable 
to unite on the field of Waterloo. In that 
case Wellington must have suffered the 
full shock of Napoleon's undivided 
forces, and must have been chased be- 
yond Brussels at the close of that mo- 
mentous day. 

As it was, Wellington by no means 
fought the battle like a master of war. 
That he made serious blunders both be- 
fore and during the engagement is a mat- 
ter of military record. That the final vie- 
tory was due to the arrival of Bliicher 
is a fact which even Englishmen to-day 
admit. Speaking of Wellington, Colonel 
Dodge ranks him no higher than many 
other commanders whom Napoleon had 
beaten in the early part of his career. He 
regards him as about equal in military 
gifts to the Austrian Archduke Charles, 
who was, indeed, a competent and by no 
means ineffective soldier, but who is not 
to be mentioned in the same breath with 
the great Corsican. 

Those who cannot readily follow the 
technicalities of the campaigns as de- 
scribed by Colonel Dodge will read with 
pleasure the concluding chapters of his 

book, which sum up the character and 
genius of Napoleon, and which compare 
him with the other supreme commanders 
to whom history assigns the foremost 
rank. Alexander, says Colonel Dodge, 
was the first teacher of systematic war; 
Hannibal was the father of strategy; 
Julius Caesar was the ideal organiser; 
Gustavus Adolphus was the father of 
modern war; Frederick the Great was 
preeminently the battle tactician; while 
Napoleon was the perfect strategist. 

In intellectual grasp, all six great captains 
stand side by side. In enthusiastic activity and 
in all the qualities which compel good fortune, 
Alexander stands clearly at the head. No one 
but Frederick has perhaps so brilliant a string 
of tactical jewels as Hannibal; while in a per- 
sistent, unswerving struggle of many years to 
coerce success against the constantly blackening 
frowns of Fortune, Hannibal stands alone and 
incomparable. Caesar was a giant in concep- 
tion and execution alike, and stands apart in 
having taught himself in middle life how to 
wage war, and then waging it in a fashion 
equalled only by the other five. Gustavus will 
always rank not only as the man who rescued 
intellectual war from oblivion, but as a most 
splendid soldier, in nobility of purpose and 
intelligence of method, that the annals of the 
world have to show. Frederick is not only the 
Battle Captain who never blanched at numbers, 
but truly the Last of the Kings — king and 
priest — in the history of mankind. Napoleon 
carries us to the highest plane of genius and 
power and success, and then declines. We 
begin by feeling that here is indeed the great- 
est of the captains, and we end by recognising 
that he has not acted out the part No doubt, 
taking him in his many-sidedness, Caesar is the 
greatest character in history. It may not un- 
fairly be claimed that Napoleon follows next, 
especially in that he preserved for Europe 
many germs of the liberty which was born of 
the blood of the Revolution. Caesar was the 
most useful man of antiquity ; Napoleon comes 
near to being the most useful man of modern 

It may be remarked that there are 
some infelicities in Colonel Dodge's nar- 
rative, unimportant, to be sure, yet still 
annoying. Whether or not he personally 
translated all the documents from the 
French in Vol. IV., we do not know, but 
he is certainly responsible for them and 



many of them are very badly done into a 
sort of schoolboy literal English. Accents 
are omitted in some of the French names, 
as regularly in the case of Massena. 
Again, there is the same carelessness with 
regard to the umlaut in German. Thus, 
Colonel Dodge consistently writes Biilow, 
but also consistently and incorrectly 
"Blucher" for Blucher. Probably "So- 
matophylaxes ,, (page 683) is a misprint. 
His mention of Jackson's "cotton-bale 
rampart" at the battle of New Orleans in- 
volves a surprising error for an exact 
student of military history. It may be 
too that the reader will find himself oc- 
casionally wondering whether Colonel 
Dodge is not himself the greatest master 
of war that has ever appeared; for he 
makes it evident in almost every chapter 
that, had he been in command, the errors 
which Napoleon made would never have 
been committed. It reminds one of his 
comment on Grant's superb campaign 
at Vicksburg — the one great military 
achievement of that general. In his Bird's 
Eye View of Our Civil War, Colonel 
Dodge remarked that Grant's manoeuv- 
ring was "strange." It was, however, es- 
sentially Napoleonic, and the result of it 
ought to be a sufficient justification of it 
even in the eyes of Colonel Dodge him- 
self. The truth is, of course, that no 
battle is ever fought precisely as a gen- 
eral would wish to have it fought. The 
element of uncertainty plays a very large 
part whenever great bodies of men con- 
tend together ; and doubtless if we knew 
the truth, the most superb success is often 
more surprising to the commander who 
achieves it than to any other human 

Richard W. Kemp. 

The Last of the Stewarts 

The value of fiction as a means of 
teaching history has often been discussed. 
It is not necessary to renew the discussion 
here. Perhaps it is just neither to fic- 
tion nor to history to consider the so- 
called historical novel in any other aspect 
than its aspect as a work of art. If such 
a novel excels in such matters as plot, 
dialogue, characterisation and the like, 

and if the historical background is correct 
in the general outlines, it is a good novel, 
whatever errors of detail it may exhibit. 
Whatever information the reader may 
gain is incidental. Undeniably many 
persons have gained from the pages of 
Shakespeare or Scott vivid glimpses of 
"old, unhappy, far-off things and battles 
long ago. Yet it is Shakespeare who is 
largely responsible for the distorted view 
of the last of the Plantagenets which has 
prevailed in the face of the facts. And it 
is an even greater novelist than Scott who 
has done most to perpetuate the injustice 
of posterity to the memory of the son of 
James II The portrait drawn in "Henry 
Esmond" is brilliant and convincing in 
itself; but it has little basis of fact. 
James III. of England— for so the parti- 
sans of the Stewarts always called him, 
and so he was in justice— was not "a wild, 
witty, heartless and ingrate young profli- 
gate, seldom sober, and when sober run- 
ning after every pretty face; destroying 
the plans and striving to ruin the honour 
of his most devoted adherents." That 
theory has been exploded before, but 
never so thoroughly as by Miss Shield 
and Mr. Lang in The King over the 
Water* By a careful study of all the 
documents available, what is really the 
first complete modern biography of James 
has been produced. "Most of the re- 
search, and almost all the writing, are 
Miss Shield's. My part has been mainly 
that of supervision and of condensation," 
Mr. Lang says in his preface. The vol- 
ume thus prepared is a notable addition to 
the Stewart literature. 

The third James Stewart was unfortu- 
nate from his birth. The slander that he 
was not really the son of James II. and 
Mary of Modena persisted long after its 
absolute falsity had been proved. Wil- 
liam of Orange, whose hopes of succeed- 
ing quietly to the throne for which he 
had long intrigued were blasted by the 
event, and all the enemies of the rightful 
king did their utmost for years to keep 
it alive. Sent with his mother to France 
before his father was forced to abdicate, 
the young prince was in perpetual peril ; 
the usurper who sanctioned the Massacre 

♦The King over the Water. By A. Shield 
and Andrew Lang. Illustrated. New York: 
Longmans, Green and Company. 1907. 



of Glencoe would not have hesitated to 
connive at his assassination. He was a 
delicate boy, and, indeed, all through his 
life he suffered from ill-health. There 
were times when he wearied of the task 
to which he was in honour bound; but 
his strong sense of duty held him. We 
search the chronicles in vain for any jus- 
tification of the accusations brought 
against him by Thackeray. He was 
sincerely religious, scrupulously moral in 
an immoral age, intelligent, conscientious 
and faithful to every obligation. He had, 
of course, the defects of his virtues. He 
sometimes hesitated where a bold course 
was essential ; he shrank from bringing 
misfortune to his adherents or shedding 
the blood of his adversaries; he had not 
the buoyant temperament and the per- 
sonal magnetism with which Bonnie 
Prince Charlie set the heather on fire. Yet 
he was loved by those who knew him 
best; and for years Scotland watched in 
vain for "Jamie" to "come hame." 

Probably he might have regained his 
lost throne had he consented to forswear 
his faith. There is nothing to indicate 
that he contemplated any subversive de- 
signs upon the Anglican Church. But 
hatred of Romanism was deep rooted 
among the English people ; and however 
much they might despise the first two 
Georges they would not consent to be 
ruled over by a "Papist." ' James III. had 
promised the fullest protection to the es- 
tablished faith, and he was one who kept 
his promises; he was no propagandist, 
like his father, but rather inclined to 
Quietism ; and yet the dread of Papal ag- 
gression inherited from the days of 
Elizabeth stood in his path. The charges 
of immoralitv also doubtless had much 
weight with the Puritan element. Such 
charges are easy to bring and hard to re- 
fute. But the most exhaustive investiga- 
tion has failed to substantiate them. Even 
the explicit accusation of Queen Clemen- 
tina is shown to be baseless. For James 
was no more fortunate in his marriage 
than in the other affairs of his melancholy 
life. The story of Clementina Sobieski 
should be tolerably familiar. Her arrest 
at Innsbruck by order of the emperor 
while she was on her way to join her 
husband-to-be, her rescue by the gallant 
Chevalier Wogan, her narrow escapes 

from a hundred perils — these things ap- 
peal to the romancer. The trouble was 
that the granddaughter of the great 
Polish hero, passionate, impulsive, fond 
of gaiety and splendour, was no fit mate 
for the grave, brooding man oppressed 
with a sense of failure and devoted to 
endless schemes which came to nothing. 
Yet the two were happy enough at first. 
It was after the failure of her hopes had 
alienated Clementina from her crownless 
king that she began to sulk and to in- 
trigue with his false friends. The ac- 
tion of James in appointing a Protestant 
tutor for his elder son enraged her be- 
yond measure ; she resented her exclusion 
from her husband's political counsels; 
and she finally went so far as to declare 
that Lady Inverness, the wife of the 
king's secretary of state, was the king's 
mistress. The miserable quarrel scan- 
dalised all Europe, and injured James 
with his own countrymen. 

"Hysteria was at the bottom of it," is 
the conclusion reached by the authors of 
The King over the Water; and there is 
no reason to dissent from that conclusion. 
It is certain that James never failed in his 
love for Clementina, sadly as she tried 
him. Nor was he without a stoic virtue 
in the other chances and changes of his 
mortal life. The story of his son's adven- 
ture in "the Forty-Five" need not be re- 
peated here. It came so near success that 
no one has ever really succeeded in ex- 
plaining why it failed. Charles was bet- 
ter fitted for such an enterprise than his 
father. But he had not his father's 
strength of character in misfortune. Few 
things in history are more pathetic than 
the record of James's closing years. 
Charles, plunged in unworthy dissipations 
and fruitless intrigues, was lost to him; 
for a time he was divided from his 
younger son Henry, the Cardinal Duke of 
York. And yet through all the darkening 
shadows he lived and died a sincere 
Christian. It is no more than justice that 
his character should at last be vindicated 
beyond dispute, as it is in these pages. 

The younger son, considered by many 
in his youth more promising than Charles, 
but who injured his brother's prospects 
and spoiled his own by taking Holy Or- 
ders and becoming a Cardinal of the 
Church of Rome, is to most persons an 



exceedingly shadowy figure. Mr. Herbert 
M. Yaughan has therefore filled a dis- 
tinct gap in the story of the unhappy 
house by giving, in The Last of the Royal 
Stuarts* a careful account of his life — 
a life far more serene than that of either 
his father or his brother. Henry IX. 
never abated his pretensions to the Eng- 
lish throne, and he maintained the royal 
style to the last ; but the hopelessness of 
his ambition did not seem to trouble him 
much. Obviously his turn of mind was 
ecclesiastical rather than political. He 
busied himself in his diocese of Frascati 
with reforming clergy and people and 
founding schools and orphanages. His 
purity of life and conscientious regard for 
duty were as marked as his father's. He 
carried forward many public works and 
turned the deserted Jesuit college into a 
seminary for the better education of 
priests. Here he brought together a fine 
library, which still exists, though it was 
plundered by the French when Napoleon 
overran Italy. It was at this time, too, 
that the cardinal was driven in poverty, 
first to Naples and then to Venice. He 
had had considerable wealth and lived in 
the state becoming an exiled king. 
Through the efforts of Cardinal Borgia 
and Sir John Hippisley, George III. be- 
came interested in his case, sent him £500 
and afterwards granted him a pension. 
This is as curious a chapter in the history 
of the Stewarts as the visits of Charles 
Edward to London, about the time of 
George III.'s coronation, unmolested by 
the government. Henry responded grace- 
fully to this overture, although he did not 
cease to sign himself Henricus Rex. 

It is impossible to suppose that Henry 
had any expectation of a Stewart restora- 
tion at this time. But much interest and 
sympathy was aroused in England in his 
behalf. He, too, appealed to generous 
hearts by reason of his many sorrows. 
The quarrel with his father was largely 
his own fault, but it was speedily made 
up, and on the whole he appears as a 
rarely dutiful son. Toward his brother 
he was usually kind in spite of many 
provocations, and his treatment of 

♦The Last of the Royal Stuarts: Henry 
Stuart, Cardinal Duke of York. By Herbert 
M. Vaughan. Illustrated. New York: E. P. 
Dutton and Company. 1906. 

Charles's wife and daughter was uni- 
formly considerate. He was no hero of 
romance, but in these pages he presents a 
not unattractive appearance. The tragic 
history of the Stewarts came to a peace- 
ful end when he died in 1807, two cen- 
turies after a Stewart king succeeded to 
the English throne. 

Edward Fuller. 


Les Filigranes* 

Booklovers will be grateful to us for 
calling their attention to a curious and 
remarkable work published recently by 
C. M. Briquet, a gentleman of French 
descent living in Geneva, Switzerland. 
The field of researches picked out by the 
author was almost unexplored, and there- 
fore, in our age of encyclopaedias, the book 
gives the reader the rare and delightful 
privilege of coming into contact with 
something really new — at least to most 
of us, and offering a new range of sensa- 

Mr. Briquet has devoted twenty-five 
years of his life to a careful study of fili- 
granes, or water-marks in the paper — 
really trademarks — which are made by a 
coppjer wire shaped in some determined 
fashion and pressed on the moist paper 
pulp. To see them one must hold the 
sheet against the light. The filigranes of 
our days seldom offer anything striking, 
but in the early days of paper manufac- 
turing, people devoted a good deal of care 
in inventing models and working them 
out ; in consequence those filigranes of the 
middle ages frequently possess a certain 
"cachet" which renders a study of them 
truly fascinating. Most paper was at 
that time manufactured in France, and 
we know well enough how those French 
artisans, before the time of the invention 
of machines, would never allow anything 
to leave their shops where the artistic 
touch would be lacking. 

Then, in former centuries, people 
showed a respect for whatever pertained 
to books which has long since passed 

♦Les filiffranes. Dictionnaire historique det 
marques du papier des leur apparition vers 
1282 jusqu'en 1600. Par C. M. Briquet. Avec 
30 figures dans le texte et 16,112 fac-simills de 
filiffranes. 4 vol. gr. in 4to. Geneve, 1907. A. 
Juflien. Prix 200 francs. 


away. Books were for them really temples did not use one stone, so to speak, which 

of thought; and as in building their had not been previously consecrated by 

churches and cathedrals they always no matter how little art, and as no corner 

wanted to work out every detail, as they was too obscure, too inconspicuous for 



a^m^ s 


some little bit of sculpture, so in their 
books they would not only put art in their 
lettering, in the illustrations, in the bind- 
ing, but even in their paper, where one 

cannot see it unless expressly looking for 
it And those designs, although con- 
cealed, were by no means contemptible 
art All the fanciful dreams and represen- 




tations of the romanesque middle ages 
are reflected in those filigranes, an endless 
procession of naive, touching, quaint, 
fascinating figures: bells, scales, crowns 
of all sorts and of all shapes ; moons, suns, 
stars, towers, cutlasses, crossbows, and 
other arms; chimeras, basilics, sirens; 
bears, horses, stags, lions, boars, eagles; 
angels, pascal lambs, Virgin Mary, the 
Holy Father, and so forth. (And those 
objects, by the way, explain names which 
are still in use to-day, like crown paper, 
post [postman's horn] paper, elephant 
paper, foolscap.) There are thousands 
and thousands of them, for Mr. Briquet 
has spared no trouble to be as complete 
as possible. He has consulted, as he ex- 
plains himself in his Introduction, some 
30,840 volumes and bundles, and 1,432 
portfolios full of documents of all kinds, 
in libraries, archives, and various collec- 
tions all over France, Germany, Switzer- 
land, Austria and Hungary, Italy, Hol- 
land. He has taken about 44,000 tracings 
of filigranes, of which 16,112 are repro- 
duced in fac-similes in the four volumes 
of the work. 

It would be an injustice to the author 
to convey the impression that his book 
can interest only booklovers of the con- 
templative kind; in fact it is just the 
other way. Les Filigranes is meant to be, 
and is going to be, first of all a useful 
work, a first-class tool for scientific pur- 
poses. Long ago scholars wanted such a 
study to be made, but the most interested 
recoiled before the magnitude of the 


Useful it will be first for ascertaining 
dates of manuscripts or prints of the 
middle ages. Often the greatest scholars 
cannot, by historical methods and philo- 
logical criticism, determine with sufficient 
accuracy the age of a document. A well- 

informed work on filigranes, as the one 
on hand, may assist the student in a 
wonderful manner. The paper mark 
being known to have been used between 
such and such dates, a very vexed prob- 
lem may be solved by a mere glance at 
the Dictionnaire. Not long ago a long 
scientific discussion was settled, thanks 
to Mr. Briquet's method. There exist 
several copies of a valuable chronique of 
early Swiss history. It was important 
. to know which was the original copy. 
Palaeographs and archivists were helpless. 
In examining, however, the filigranes, the 
problem was solved without any possi- 
bility of doubt. 

The book will also be useful, thanks 
to its original and various designs, to 
archaeologists, antiquarians, students of 
art; heraldists will consult it frequently, 
and collectors of autographs too. 

And last but not least this work will 
practically put out of a very lucrative al- 
though very objectionable business, the 
forgers of old documents. Tragedies 
like Vigny's Chatterton, and novels like 
Daudet's L'Immortel will hardly be pos- 
sible in the future. 

Thus this work of Mr. Briquet, hailed 
all over Europe as a monument of patient 
and exact erudition, and yet which has 
nothing of the dryness often found in 
scholarly books, will no doubt find recog- 
nition on this side of the ocean as well as 
where bibliophiles are becoming more 
numerous every day. 

A. S chins. 

Anatole France's "Jean d'Arc"* 

The most salient feature of this new 
life of Jeanne d'Arc (a feature which has 

♦Vie de Jeanne D'Arc. In Two Volumes. 
Par Anatole France. Paris: Calmann-Levy. 



evoked several protests within a week of 
publication and which is sure to evoke 
more) is the relative unimportance which 
the author assigns to the direct action of 
the maid of Domremy. The rescue of 
the beleaguered city of Orleans, upon 
which generations of poets and historians 
have lavished stirring stanzas and thrill- 
ing periods, seems to him anything but a 
brilliant feat of arms, and the campaigns 
which followed were, in his opinion, 
nothing to boast of : 

"The city of Orleans had, by way of 
defence, walls, moats, cannon, men-at- 
arms, and money. The English had not 
been able either to take it by assault or to 
invest it. Between their works passed 
convoys, companies. Jeanne was intro- 
duced into the city with a fine army of re- 
inforcements which brought numbers of 
cattle, sheep and swine. . . . The be- 
siegers were exhausted as regards both 
men and money. They had lost all their 
horses. Far from being able to attempt 
a fresh attack, they had not the force to 
maintain themselves long in their posi- 
tions. At the end of April, there were 
four thousand English before Orleans 
and, perhaps, less, for some left every 
day. ... At this same time, the de- 
fenders of the citv consisted of six thou- 
sand men-at-arms and archers and of 
bourgeois militia to the number of three 
thousand. At Saint-Loup, there were 
fifteen hundred French against four hun- 
dred English ; at Les Tourelles, five thou- 
sand French against four or five hundred 
English. In withdrawing, 'the Godons'* 
abandoned to their fate the little garri- 
sons of Jargeau, of Meung and of Beau- 
gency. The state of the English army 
may be judged by the battle of Patay, not 
a battle but a massacre, at which Jeanne 
arrived only in time to bemoan the cruelty 
of the conquerors. . . . During what is 
called the 'mission of Jeanne d'Arc' from 
Orleans to Compiegne, the French lost 
but a few hundred men. The English 
suffered more, because they were fleeing 
and because it was the custom of the con- 
querors to kill all those whom it was not 
worth while to hold for ransom. But the 
battles were rare, consequently the defeats 

♦The Godons are the English. The name 
was given them because of their profuse use 
of "God-dams:' 

were also rare and the number of the 
combatants was small. There was only 
a handful of English in France." 

As regards the opinion advanced in 
certain quarters, that the maid of Dom- 
remy was exceedingly skilful in group- 
ing and conducting an army and particu- 
larly expert in directing artillery, M. 
France says : 

Jeanne, always at prayer and in ecstasy, did 
not observe the enemy, she did not know the 
roads, she did not estimate the forces en- 
gaged, she paid no attention either to the 
height of the walls or the width of the moats. 
We hear officers discuss to-day the tactical 
genius of "La Pucelle." She had only one 
form of tactics— namely, to prevent the men 
from blaspheming the Lord and from trailing 
harlots with them. She believed that they 
would be destroyed for their sins, but that, if 
they combated in a state of grace, they 
would be given the victory. This was all her 
military science, apart from the fact that 
she did not fear danger. 

The English were already in an im- 
possible situation when Jeanne d'Arc ap- 
peared upon the scene. Their discomfi- 
ture and withdrawal was a foregone con- 
clusion ; it was only a question of time. 
The arrival of the virgin warrior may 
have accelerated somewhat an event that 
was inevitable. This is the most that can 
be conceded. 

It was not Jeanne who drove the English 
from France. If she helped to save Orleans, 
she rather retarded the deliverance of the coun- 
try in causing the army to miss, by the march 
of the "Sacre," the opportunity to recover 
Normandy. The misfortunes of the English 
from 1428 on explain themselves very nat- 
urally. In peaceful Guyenne, where they tilled 
the soil, engaged in business and navigation, 
and administered skilfully the finances, the 
district, which they rendered prosperous, was 
very much attached to them. Along the banks 
of the Seine and of the Loire, on the contrary, 
they could not get a foothold. They had never 
been able to implant themselves there, to settle 
there in sufficient numbers, to set up there 
solid establishments. Shut up in fortresses 
and chateaux, they did not cultivate the soil 
enough to conquer it . . . Their ridiculously 
small garrisons found themselves prisoners in 
the country of their conquest They had long 



teeth, but a pickerel does not swallow an 
ox. . . . What is really surprising is not that 
the English were driven out of France, but 
that they were driven out so slowly. 

Another noteworthy feature of M. 
France's work is its great indulgence 
toward most of the parties responsible 
for the death of Jeanne. M. France 
scouts the idea that she was wantonly 
victimised by the persons whose interests 
she had served. "I confess," he says, 
"that I have been unable to discover the 
covert intrigues of the councillors of the 
king and of the captains, who had sworn 
to accomplish the downfall of the saint. 
They assail the eyes of several historians ; 
as for me, do my best, I cannot discern 
them." He finds the imprisonment of 
Jeanne natural enough, considering the 
spirit of the times, and, by expounding 
the psychology of the fifteenth century, he 
explains and excuses, if he does not jus- 
tify, her condemnation to the stake. This 
apology of the Church is the more sig- 
nificant that it comes from a man who is 
a free-thinker and an anti-clerical (of late 
years a militant anti-clerical) ; and it 
would be positively disconcerting, were 
it not that its author has been all his life 
a passionate lover of the patristic litera- 
ture in which he is better versed, prob- 
ably, than nine-tenths of the ecclesiastics 
of to-day. 

M. France has no doubts whatever re- 
garding the absolute sincerity of Jeanne. 
"It is impossible," he says, "to suspect 
her of deceit." He admits freely that she 
heard voices and saw visions. She was a 
saint in a mystic age, when it was almost 
normal to be a saint; and the influence 
she exerted is easily explained by that 
fact. "What was expected of science in 
1871 was expected of religion in 1428. 
Hence, it was as natural for the Bastard 
of Orleans to think of utilising Jeanne as 
it was for Gambetta to think of having 
recourse to the technical knowledge of M. 
de Freycinet." Nevertheless, he is of the 
opinion (without being able, as he 
frankly admits, to advance conclusive 
proofs thereof) that Jeanne frequented 
very early certain unknown priests at- 
tached to the cause of the Dauphin who 
fervently desired the end of the war and 
that her delusions and illusions were 

nourished and directed by these mysteri- 
ous parties. 

Anatole France is generally conceded 
to be the foremost living master of 
French prose. In point of style, La Vie 
de Jeanne d'Arc is every way worthy of 
the author of La Rotisserie de la Reine 
Pedauque and Le Jardin d'£picure. 
It is a limpid, smoothly-flowing stream of 
beautiful sentences which could proceed 
from no other source. 

M. France is also conceded to be the 
subtlest French ironist of his epoch. 
In the Jeanne d'Arc, however, he has 
stubbornly resisted the temptation to 
complicate by too much sophistication a 
narrative which his unerring sense of the 
fitness of things tells him should be 
simple, straightforward, reverent, and 
sweet. Most of the relatively rare in- 
stances in which a trace of the amiable 
irony of M. J home Coignard appears 
are justified by a similar quality in an an- 
cient text. The literary heroism dis- 
played by M. France in this matter is en- 
titled to unmeasured praise. 

Alvan F. Sanborn. 


William De Morgan's "Somehow 


Mr. de Morgan is a giant in the 
marketplace. Somehow Good makes 
one better aware of the generous dimen- 
sions of his figure, more certain of its 
solidity. Joseph Vance, with all its delight- 
fulness, left one with the not unpleasing 
sense of disquiet which might be felt in 
the neighbourhood of a genial ghost 
There was avouch of the uncanny in that 
revival of a mode of fiction which had 
seemingly exhausted itself at least a gen- 
eration ago. Was it a revival, or less 
than that, an imitation, or more than that, 
a survival? Alice-for-Short did not 
altogether clear the matter up. Some 
people liked it better than its predecessor, 
some not so well; everybody agreed it 
was much the same kind of thing. The 
question what kind of thing remained 
unanswered. Was it perhaps only an- 
other elaborate study in mid- Victorian 

♦Somehow Good. By William de Morgan. 
New York: Henry libit and Company. 



romance? But the fact probably is that 
merelv a few critics bothered their heads 
about the kind of thing; the general 
reader simply took these stories home to 
his bosom. They were terribly long- 
winded, disjointed, impertinent, garru- 
lous, they could not be skipped or hur- 
ried; they took every advantage of the 
story-teller's license, did as they pleased 
' — and pleased as they did. All sorts of 
people liked them for all sorts of reasons 
— the final fest of a generous art. And it 
seems pretty clear that the art of a novel- 
ist can only be a generous art when ad- 
vantage is taken of the license under 
which he works. Our current theory of 
the compact novel, the trim novel, the 
happy-despatch novel is a shallow theory 
induced by our fatuous regard for that 
inconsiderable literary capsule, the short 
story. Your proper novel — your Tom 
Jones, or Humphrey Clinker, or Peveril 
or Esmond, does not in the least suggest 
a statue or a play. Its virtues are not 
those of purity, restraint, concision, but 
of profusion, richness, and embellishment. 
Your tale, your conte, is at best a pretty 
jewel : Heaven help the novel if it is only 
to be a paste enlargement of it. 

Somehow Good, as I say, makes me 
fully aware of Mr. de Morgan's as a 
solid corporeal head and shoulders, set 
square and calm above the fiddling im- 
patience and impotence which shrills its 
wares in the popular market place of let- 
ters. There is no air of strain or striving 
about him ; and whatever whimsical self- 
consciousness may have attended his ar- 
rival has given place to the quiet confi- 
dence of one who has arrived. Some- 
how Good is somewhat less diffuse and 
discursive than its predecessors; it has 
fewer characters, and the. ingredients of 
the tale are simpler. Indeed, their sim- 
plicity is fairly appalling. This is a 
theme which no mid- Victorian novelist 
would have dreamed of concerning him- 
self with. It is modern with a vengeance ; 
it frankly concerns one of those problems 
of sex psychology now commonly made 
an excuse for literary prurience or ribal- 
dry. In Mr. de Morgan's hands it be- 
comes matter not for morbid curiosity or 
flippancy, but for intense human sym- 
pathy in the exact sense of the word. In 
the elder Rosalind's fall we sin all, and 

for that sin we all reasonably, not mawk- 
ishly, atone. For amid all our distress it 
is given us to understand in what sense 
we have fallen. When as a young girl on 
the eve of marriage Rosalind Nightingale 
becomes the victim of a mature rake into 
whose clutches fate has thrown her, her 
own share of the fault is as small as it 
can be under the circumstances. She has 
really no sense of having forfeited the 
right to live and be happy, and allows 
herself to be married by a man who 
knows nothing of her "fall." She has 
committed two heinous and irreparable 
crimes according to the canons of melo- 
drama. After her betrothal she has al- 
lowed herself to be seduced by a mar- 
ried man, and has entered the estate of 
wedlock under the falsest of pretences. 
Well, the first part of her penance is con- 
ventional enough. Shortly after her mar- 
riage, the fact of the past is brought 
home to her in the simplest of ways : now 
indeed the horror of it all seizes her, and 
she tells her husband. He, being young 
and normal, leaves her, and institutes pro- 
ceedings for divorce, which fall through 
on technical grounds. He disappears. It 
is clear enough what ought to happen to 
her after this, according to all the rules of 
the dramatist and the novelist. She ought 
to commit suicide; or she ought, after 
vainly attempting to support self and 
"cheeild," to present herself in a black 
shawl some winter day at the door of her 
betrayer (or her husband) and beg for 
bread ; or she ought to become a "woman 
of the street" and haunt the back-scene in 
"tawdry finery" at untimely moments. 
However, it is precisely here that the ac- 
tion of our story is observed to be remote 
from the call of the prompter. In fact, this 
ordinary human person — a strong and 
lovable person — proceeds to live on in 
the ordinary human way. The past is bad 
enough — she knows how bad it is better 
than anybody else ; but she does not spend 
the rest of her life in brooding over the 
fact that she is "ruined." No more do her 
friends. One of them, an uncle in the 
army, takes her back to England (the pre- 
liminary action is laid in India) and there 
she grows up with her daughter quietly 
and on the whole happily. For this child 
of a crooked hour grows tall and straight, 
the chief treasure of the mother, who 

i 7 8 


should (according to the rules) detest 
her. It is she that brings back by strange 
chance the wandering male who has fled 
from them outraged twenty years before. 
At this point the story really begins ; we 
are a long time in picking up the threads 
of the action which has preceded the re- 
turn of the husband and — not father. Of 
the condition in which he returns, of the 
problem, the long strain, which ensue for 
the wife and mother, and of the finally 
triumphant issue of the whole matter, I 
need not speak here. Simply and beauti- 
fully the action develops in that aura of 
rich humour which casts its glow over all 
human life as Mr. de Morgan sees it. As 
for its sombre elements, its shame and re- 
gret and fear, they are never permitted to 
usurp the scene, as they ought never to 
be among healthy-minded persons. The 
wrong, the suffering that ensues, are not 
light matters, but in the end ''somehow 
good" comes of it all. 

H. IV. Boynton. 


Archibald Marshall's "Exton 

Mr. Marshall is still in the earlier 
stage of his literary career. He does not 
yet seem to realise that it is dangerous to 
discourse prefatorily about the scheme of 
a book until you are sure you can carry 
out that scheme completely. And of all 
forms of art certainly the novel is the 
one form that should be able to stand on 
its own feet, without the aid of explana- 
tory preface or programme. Also, say- 
ing that you want to do a thing, is by no 
means saying that you can do it. And if 
you don't say what you are going to do, 
people will be content with what you have 
done, unless you draw their attention to 
the fact that you have not fulfilled your 
own ideals. 

This is exactly what Mr. Marshall has 
done with his quite unnecessary "Pref- 
ace to the American Edition" of his latest 
book. He has had so much to say about 
what he intended to do, and what, in his 
own opinion, he had very evidently done, 
that he has naturally invited a severity of 

*Exton Manor. By Archibald Marshall. 
New York: Dodd, Mead and Company. 

criticism which might not otherwise fall 
to his share. 

Exton Manor, from which the novel 
takes its title, is a typical English coun- 
try parish, a community of tenants dwell- 
ing in the various houses on a great 
estate, the well-to-do people being mostly 
concerned in the doings of the story. 
There is the dowager Countess, there is 
the honest country parson with his mali- 
cious-tongued wife, there is the pretty 
Irish widow and the young English girl, 
also the maturer widow. There are sev- 
eral types of young men, of course, and 
one or two who are older. Now there 
would be two excuses for giving us five 
hundred closely printed pages about these 
people. Either it is to be a novel of plot, 
and we are to be shown these people 
struggling in the bonds of some exciting 
conflict, some series of events outside of 
the ordinary. Or else we are to have a 
leisurely story of development of charac- 
ter, an intimate narrative of the slow un- 
folding of a soul in its relations to the 
other souls about it. 

Unfortunately Mr. Marshall gives us 
neither. What he does give us is a series 
of events, most of them trivial, others 
more important but not inevitable to the 
conflict, which are drawn slowly across 
our line of vision, somewhat, except for 
the difference in the tempo, as the events 
in a series of moving pictures, say "The 
Arrival of the Northern Mail" are flashed 
before us on the sheeted stage. Of them- 
selves the events are of no importance, 
but their method of being shown to us is 
new and therefore interests us. A novel, 
however, is an old art form and cannot 
be handled on the same lines. There is 
no inevitableness about the beginning of 
this novel, and the ending is arbitrary and 
forced. The characters do a great deal 
of talking, but their qualities of mind and 
soul become known to us mostly through 
what the author has to say about them. 
And there are pages and pages of noth- 
ingness, of events of no consequence, of 
conversation of no bearing upon plot or 
character. There is no development of 
character, because all the characters are 
fixed when we first met them, fixed as on 
a photograph. The only change of heart 
that comes about is in the case of the 
spiteful, tale-bearing vicar's wife, and she 


is a person so exaggerated as to lose our 
interest early in the story. 

In the midst of all this the author 
gives a couple of chapters to a conflict 
good enough to have been made the sub- 
ject for an entire novel. This is the case 
of Mrs. Redcliffe, a widow with an only 
daughter and the memory of a few years 
of happy married life in Australia. Hav- 
ing been born and brought up in the 
colonies, she wedded the widowed hus- 
band of her elder sister, without a thought 
that any law in the world could make it 
wrong. A widow, she returns to England 
to discover that in the eyes of many 
people, and in the opinion of the Church, 
the doctrines of which she believes, her 
marriage was not legal, and her daughter 
has no name. Until the repeal a few 
years ago of the stupid and cruel law con- 
cerning the Deceased Wife's Sister, many 
such conflicts must have arisen, and this 
case is a particularly good one, in that 
the woman herself has come to believe the 
position of the Church to be right, in 
spite of the fact that she knows her own 
marriage to have been in every other way 
a true union. The character of the woman 
is a sympathetic one, and here is material 

for a real tragedy which would have 
added zest even to this colourless 

But Mr. Marshall makes of it only an 
occasion for petty village gossip and 
parish bickerings, and passes on to a con- 
tinuation of events which follow each 
other meaninglessly, and to a piling up 
of people in the story who fail to interest, 
although their author tells us many times 
that they are interesting. 

In the preface Mr. Marshall gives as 
his literary creed the assertion that "it 
is not a novelist's business to draw por- 
traits, but to create living figures, and 
the nearer he gets to the first, the farther 
off he will be from the second." But Mr. 
Marshall to the contrary, it is impossible 
to read a book like Exton Manor with 
the feeling that for the "method" the 
author tells us he wishes to follow, a 
little portraiture is absolutely necessary, 
if the figures drawn are to interest us at 

But there is enough that is good in this 
book, and enough that shows possibilities 
for later work from the author, to justify 
serious criticism. 

Grace Isabel Colbron. 


■ O some extent the ques- 
I tion of the Point of 
a View in fiction has been 
a already discussed in this 
I series of articles, under 
I the title of "The Novel- 
Omniscience." It 
was then pointed out that, inasmuch as 
the novelist is the creator of his person- 
ages and of the imaginary world in which 
they play their parts, it may logically be 
assumed that his knowledge of them is 
exhaustive; that he may look behind 
closed doors and into the secret recesses 
of the heart, and tell us what is there tak- 

ing place ; furthermore, that in regard to 
the essentials of a story, we have a right 
to insist that he shall know and share his 
knowledge with us, — and the right also 
to feel that we are the victims of a practi- 
cal joke, if, as in a few famous instances, 
like The Lady or the Tiger, he disavows 
responsibility and confesses ignorance. 
A novelist, however, may and often does, 
for certain artistic purposes, limit the 
scope of his knowledge to a certain defi- 
nite point of view ; he may say to his 
public, at the outset, "I am going to tell 
you only so much of this story as comes 
within the personal knowledge of my 



heroine, or of my heroine's confidential 
maid, or of my heroine's small brother ;" 
and with this limited point of view defi- 
nitely understood beforehand, no one can 
accuse the author of breach of faith for 
his reticence. 

But the question of the author's omnis- 
cience and the question of the point of 
view in fiction are very far from being 
identical. They are as different as is the 
question of which section of a landscape 
you are going to photograph different 
from that of the angle at which you place 
your camera. After an author has de- 
termined which of the several possible 
degrees of knowledge he will concede, 
there may be, and there usually are, sev- 
eral different points of view from which 
the story can be told, — and to decide be- 
tween them often calls for the most deli- 
cate judgment. Even in the simplest case 
of all, the case where the novelist assumes 
the attitude of an all-knowing deity, he 
still has a certain range of choice: he 
may obtrude himself, after the familiar 
manner of Thackeray, as the self-con- 
fessed Master of the Show; or he may 
merely thrust the facts before you, as 
impersonally and impartially as fate it- 
self. Or again, knowing and admitting 
that he knows all the secret acts and 
thoughts and motives of his personages, 
he may adopt either one of two radically 
different procedures: if he follows the 
analytical school, he will lay bare the 
human brain and make you listen to its 
pulsations; if, on the contrary, he is a 
realist, he will not take up time and space 
in recording the mere thoughts of men 
and women, but will tell you exhaustively 
about the deeds which are the outcome 
of those thoughts, and which he cannot 
know until he has learned and analysed 
those thoughts for himself. 

But the whole modern tendency of 
fiction of the best sort is away from the 
novel of omniscience toward that of a 
limited knowledge, a circumscribed field 
of vision. And here the possibility of 
choice in point of view is far greater. 
Take, for example, the story that is seen 
through the eyes of one person only, — 
the most natural and logical of all forms 
of fiction, since in real life that is the 
way in which we all of us live, from day 
to day, the one story in which we are 

vitally interested. The novelist, let us 
assume, decides to limit his knowledge 
absolutely to that of his heroine, — to 
what she does and sees and thinks, sup- 
plemented by what she is able to glean at 
first hand from others. Now, he may 
write his novel in the first person, letting 
his heroine speak for herself, — and she 
has the further choice of speaking to the 
world at large, offering no excuse for her 
unusual candour; or she may put her 
thoughts into the form of a private diary, 
ostensibly intended for no eye but her 
own; or, thirdly, she may reveal herself 
in letters, either to a number of corre- 
spondents, thus showing us many differ- 
ent sides of her character ; or the letters 
may all be written to one person, and in 
that case what we learn of her story is 
limited not merely to the heroine's knowl- 
edge, but still further narrowed down to 
what she chooses to let this particular 
correspondent know. A good object- 
lesson of the unsatisfactory results to be 
expected from this last-mentioned type 
was afforded a few years ago by that 
vastly overrated volume, An English- 
woman's Love Letters. 

Yet it is not in the least necessary that 
a story which is to be strictly limited to 
the personal knowledge of the heroine 
should purport to be written by her, or 
even to be written in the first person. It 
might, of course, be written by a confi- 
dential maid, who faithfully records what 
My Lady told her. Or, best of all, it 
may be written as Henry James wrote 
What Maisie Knew, outwardly in 
straightforward narrative form, yet 
subtly confining itself faithfully to that 
narrow segment of life which came 
within the personal observation of the 
child herself. Undoubtedly, Mr. James 
has developed this special principle of 
his art to a finer, subtler degree than any 
other novelist. Yet the principle itself is 
not new ; it has to a varying degree been 
followed probably without conscious in- 
tention, by writers of all sorts and con- 
ditions, writers as far apart in other re- 
spects as Jane Austen, let us say, and 
Alexandre Dumas. Read Emma care- 
fully, with the Point of View steadily in 
mind, and you will find that, excepting 
for a few non-essential episodes, you see 
the world in which she moves solely 


through the eyes of Emma Woodhouse; 
what Mr. Knightley or the Eltons or 
Miss Bates are doing, when they pass 
beyond her field of vision, you know no 
more than she does. Read Les Trois 
Mousquetaires over again, to the same 
purpose, and you discover that through- 
out the best parts of the book, the parts 
that really count, you follow closely at 
d'Artagnan's heels, that your knowledge 
is his knowledge, neither more nor less ; 
that when on the memorable ride from 
Paris to London, in quest of the queen's 
diamonds, he successively loses sight of 
Porthos, Aramis and Athos, the reader 
also loses sight of them, and knows noth- 
ing more of their adventures until in com- 
pany with d'Artagnan he picks them up 

Now, if a novelist has decided to limit 
his knowledge to that of one of his char- 
acters, it may seem a trivial matter 
whether he writes in the first or the 
third person; it involves at most, one 
might thoughtlessly say, that well-re- 
membered change to the oratio obliqua, 
which in boyhood was our chief bugbear 
in reading Caesar's Gallic Wars. But on 
the contrary it often does matter exceed- 
ingly. There are certain stories which 
would be quite spoiled if told otherwise 
than in the first person, — Poe's Black 
Cat, for instance, or The Telltale Heart, 
or The Cask of Amontillado, in which 
something of the personal horror, the 
bitter animosity would have been sacri- 
ficed by a shifting of the point of view. 
Sometimes the strength of a whole scene 
depends upon some mannerism of speech, 
some touch of dialect, a certain intimate 
note that would be absolutely lost by a 
conversion to the third person. Think 
how the very heart would drop out of 
Soldiers Three if Terence Mulvaney's 
utterances came to us in the form of 
indirect discourse! And on the other 
hand, there are stories which would lose 
quite as much if presented through the 
medium of the pronoun /. This method 
would have been impossible for such a 
book as Mr. James's What Maisie Knew, 
because it would have limited the author, 
not only to Maisie's knowledge of facts 
but also to her knowledge of the art of 
expression. It would have rendered im- 
possible all those delicate subtleties of 

meaning, those elusive phases of her 
mental understanding, for which the 
child, if speaking for herself, could not 
have found expression, even though she 
dimly realised them. As a general rule, 
the story of action gains by being told at 
first hand; the story of psychological 
analysis gains even more by being told in 
the third person. Of the first class, there 
happens to exist a convenient object les- 
son in the transformation which Dumas 
effected when he built Les Trois Mous- 
quetaires on the basis of Courtil de 
Sandroz's Memoires d'Artagnan. Quite* 
aside from the fact that Dumas had 
genius and De Sandroz had not, the mere 
change of pronouns, by eliminating a cer- 
tain effect of bombast, braggadocio, and 
caddish lack of reticence, converts 
d'Artagnan from a rojgue to a man of 
honour. When d'Artagnan tells us of his 
prowess in war or love, he is a vulgar 
boaster; when Dumas tells us the same 
identical episodes, he makes a hero of 

It is by no means a simple question to 
decide which of several possible points of 
view an author should adopt. And there 
are certain border-line cases that present 
exceeding difficulty. Such a case is af- 
forded by William Jordan, Junior, the 
new volume by Mr. J. C. Snaith, hitherto 
best known as author of Broke of Coven- 
den. The first thing to 
"William be said of William Jor- 

Jordan, dan, Junior, and to be 

Junior" said quite emphatically, is 

that it is easily the most 
important novel of the month, if not of 
many months, — the novel which best de- 
serves careful and sympathetic considera- 
tion. There are some readers, un- 
doubtedly, who will have scant patience 
with the obscurity of its involved sym- 
bolism ; but such readers will all be found 
to belong to one class : the men and wo- 
men who have never known what it 
means to shrink from the outside world ; 
who cannot recall the misery of timid 
childhood, the nameless dread of the first 
day at school, the first close contact with 
strange boys and girls, whose ways were 
not their ways, and whose thoughts were 
not their thoughts, — in a word, that in- 
tangible, indefinable fear of "street-per- 
sons," to borrow Mr. Snaith's own won- 



derful coinage. If you have known none 
of these agonies, then it were better for 
you to pass the book by, since it is not for 
you. It speaks a language that you will 
not understand; it appeals to memories 
vou have never had. Now, even if the 
number of those whose hearts in child- 
hood sometimes quailed were but a tithe 
of what they are, the book would still 
have been eminently worth the doing, 
still admirable in its conception and its 
achievement. But the truth is that, if we 
are quite honest with ourselves, there are 
few of us who can boast that we never 
have felt the fear of the street-persons, 
never have shrunk from the inexorable 
outside world. The difference between 
us and William Jordan, between the aver- 
age man and the genius, is that the former 
grows quickly callous, while the latter re- 
tains his sensitiveness unimpaired. What 
Mr. Snaith's book does for most of us is 
to reawaken memories of feelings which 
have slumbered, we know not how many 
years. William Jordan is the mirror of 
our own earlier selves, the selves that we 
have outgrown and discarded, the selves 
that it is good for us now and then to 
call up again and study and contrast with 
what we have become. 

Here, as briefly as may be, is an epit- 
ome of the book: William Jordan is a 
frail, dreamy, unworldly boy, with beauti- 
ful features and an open wound upon one 
cheek. He knows nothing of life, beyond 
the four walls of the second-hand book 
shop where he lives with his impractical 
father; walls lined with ancient tomes, 
most of which he has read. He speaks a 
language of grave simplicity, that is in 
part an echo of the Bible, and in part of 
Maeterlinck. He believes that he is des- 
tined to be "one of the great ones of the 
earth," and in order to fulfil his destiny 
must be "well found in knowledge" : 

"True, beloved one," said the man through 
pale lips. 

"And the meaning of everything, my 
father." said the boy, "bird, beast and reptile, 
and the moon and stars, and why the street- 
persons walk the streets of the great city ; and 
why the earth is so many-coloured; and why 
the sky is so near and yet so far off ; and why 
when you clutch the air there is nothing in 
your hand. Must not such as I know all this, 
my father?" 

"True, true," said his father, "but I fear, 
beloved one, that all this knowledge is not to 
be acquired in this little room of ours. . . . 
He who would understand the meaning of all 
things must certainly go to school." 

The boy clasped his frail hands and strove 
to conceal the abject fear in his eyes. 

"Then, my father, I also will go to school." 

Such is the beginning of William Jor- 
dan's struggle to master his terror of the 
street-persons, — a struggle in which we 
follow him through his brief school days, 
through the seven ensuing years of his 
clerkship in a London publishing house, 
through a six months' term in prison, for 
the theft of a sum of money which, in his 
utter unworldliness, he believes has been 
miraculously placed in his way; and 
finally through the last days in which he 
writes his swan-song, his epic poem on 
Reconciliation, dying happy in his igno- 
rance that the public has passed it by. 

Now there are many things which it 
would be worth while to say about this 
uncommon book, written in a most un- 
common and often very beautiful phrase- 
ology. But for the purpose of the pres- 
ent article, the important thing to empha- 
sise is the point of view. There were 
obviously two methods open to the au- 
thor : either to let William Jordan tell his 
own story, giving with a greater direct- 
ness and poignancy than can be otherwise 
attained the anguish of his struggle 
against his inborn cowardice; or else to 
do what he has actually done, and give us 
the same facts, but in a measure from an 
outside point of view. There are certain 
abnormal mental conditions, in which one 
is conscious of a sort of dual personality ; 
conditions under which one moves as in a 
dream, doing queer, fantastic, irrational 
acts, without reason or volition, — and yet 
at the same time gravely looking on, from 
the outside as it were, a disinterested wit- 
ness of one's own folly. This sort of 
dual point of view may have been de- 
liberately aimed at by Mr. Snaith, or it 
may have been one of those curious acci- 
dents that sometimes wait upon genius. 
At all events, this comparison to the dual 
consciousness of inebriation, although in- 
adequate, is the nearest approach that the 
present writer can achieve to illustrate the 
curious mental condition in which Mr. 


Snaith's book leaves the reader. If you 
sympathise with the sufferings of William 
Jordan, — and otherwise, as already said, 
you have no business with the book, — you 
will identify yourself with him, look out 
upon the world through his eyes, share 
his dread of the street-persons, eventually 
triumph with him ; — and yet, at the same 
time, you will be looking upon the outside 
world with mature, comprehending eyes, 
realising the folly, the uselessness of 
weakness and shrinking, feeling an in- 
dulgent pity for that unhappy, half-for- 
gotten self which once was you. A hun- 
dred questions press forward for solution, 
as you read the book. What is the mean- 
ing of its symbolism? Is Mr. Snaith try- 
ing to say that there is no room for 
genius to-day, in the cruel, thoughtless 
turmoil of modern life? Or does he 
mean that only through excessive suffer- 
ing can genius hope to reach its highest 
achievement ? Is the open wound on the 
boy's cheek a symbol with as definite a 
purpose as that of the burden which Bun- 
yan placed upon Christian's back? And 
if so, just what is that purpose? The 
questions and the wonderment multiply 
indefinitely. There is no use in denying 
that the book is marred, here and there, 
by its obscurity ; it leaves one often grop- 
ing in the dark. In view of what its 
author seems to have tried to do, there 
are some readers who will even be 
tempted to pronounce it a failure. But 
those who take the trouble to read it un- 
derstandingly, will agree in maintaining 
that if William Jordan, Junior, in any 
way deserves the name of failure, it is a 
greater achievement to fail so splendidly 
than to produce a faultless work upon a 
lower plane. 

Another book of considerable power 
is Come and Find Me, by Elizabeth Rob- 
ins. It might have easily 

"Come and " )een mucn stronger, if 

i?:„j »#->» the author had only been 

■Tina Me .... ' £ « 

a little more sure of her 
point of view. What she 
might have done is worth speaking of, 
briefly, after pointing out what she actu- 
ally has done. In the character of Na- 
thaniel Mar, she has pictured a man who 
began life as a mining engineer and ex- 
plorer, and in middle age finds himself a 
broken-down bank clerk, discharged to 

make room for a younger generation. 
But in his youth, when accompanying a 
surveying party through Alaska, he 
stumbled upon some gold deposits, quar- 
ter of a century before the secret of the 
Klondike was dreamed of by the world at 
large. Returning home, he planned to 
found a company and return to open up 
his mine ; on the strength of his discovery 
and his glowing tale, he won a wife who, 
until then had not known her own mind. 
And then misfortunes began ; his frosted 
foot became troublesome; operation fol- 
lowed operation, ending in the loss of a 
leg. His closest friend, who alone would 
have advanced the needed capital, sud- 
denly died. Others to whom he ap- 
pealed, one after another turned from the 
cripple, believing that he was a victim to 
hallucination born of Northern cold and 
privation. His wife lost faith in him; 
his very children mocked at his delusion. 
Then, as the crowning chapter of trag- 
edies, comes the awakening of the Klon- 
dike, the wild stampede for the gold 
fields, in which Nathaniel Mar, crippled 
as he is, joins, — only to find that others 
had staked their claims to all the territory 
that he had prospected twenty-five years 
earlier. Now this in itself is a big theme, 
and one to be treated from the point of 
view of Mar himself, his efforts, his dis- 
appointments, his failures. But this is 
only the first half of the book. The au- 
thor shifts her standpoint to that of 
Mar's daughter, shows how she goes, in 
the midst of the stampede, to Alaska, how 
she seeks to find and save her father; 
how she also follows the trail of the man 
she half believes herself to be in love 
with; how she is accompanied and 
guarded by the man who loves her, and 
who eventually wins her. All this, por- 
trayed in against an admirably graphic 
background of motley human crowds, is 
also a big story, and one to tell from the 
point of view of one person, — the girl 
herself. And back of this is another 
motif, the epic of the Klondike. It is the 
gold of Alaska that speaks in the title, 
calling to the outside world to come and 
find it, — and to treat properly this bigger 
theme an outside point of view, such as 
Zola regularly assumes in his novels of 
epic bigness, is required. The material of 
Miss Robins's latest book is admirable, but 

1 84 


she has failed to give it to us in the 
proper proportions ; she either began her 
story too soon, or ended it too late; she 
has not constructed with the same sure- 
ness of touch that we had a right to ex- 
pect from her. 

A book which, aside from two or three 
mistaken chapters, is in its construction 

quite beyond criticism, is 
"A A Walking Gentleman, 

Walking by James Prior. Read- 

Gentleman" ers who found pleasure 

in the whimsical freedom 
from conventionality that was the chief 
distinction of Mr. William J. Locke's 
Beloved Vagabond will find a kindred de- 
light in this account of a young English 
nobleman who, on the day before that set 
for his marriage, wanders down a high- 
way, falls in with a party of trades-people 
off for a day's holiday, is asked to join 
them ; and, passing from one strange ex- 
perience to another, drifts back and forth 
across England for weeks and months, 
leaving his affianced bride to think what 
she will. The trouble with Lord Beiley 
is that he has been carefully reared in an 
envelopment of pink cotton, as it were; 
he has been so systematically guarded 
from contact with the world at large that 
he knows nothing of the average man and 
woman, and scarcely more of himself, — 
what he can do, what he counts for, what 
his real value is to the world, physically 
and mentally. He is suffering from pure 
boredom, the stagnation of intellect and 
of muscle. He has chosen the woman he 
is to marry, not because he loves her or 
appreciates her, but because it is the ex- 
pected thing, the natural outcome of pro- 
pinquity. And suddenly, when chance 
throws the temptation of vagabondage in 
his way ; when the mad desire for free- 
dom assails him, and he finds himself in 
an environment where the artificial stand- 
ards of rank count for nothing, and a 
man finds his level by his wits, his pro- 
ductive power, his ability to strike hard 
and quickly. The story not only has a 
clever theme, well handled, but better yet 
it is delightfully written. It gives a series 
of vivid pictures of rural England, a suc- 
cession of carefully studied types of 
middle-class lower-class men and women, 
of the scum and riff-raff of society, all 
admirable in their own special way. And 

furthermore, it shows in a simple, logical, 
unobtrusive manner how Lord Beiley's 
education is slowly being completed in 
this very rough school he has selected; 
how he acquires a knowledge of the com- 
parative values of men, and more es- 
pecially of women; and how he eventu- 
ally comes to know that the world holds 
just one woman for whom he cares, — and 
that is the Lady Sarah Sallis, to whom he 
has done the great indignity of having 
deserted her, almost at the altar's steps. 
But meanwhile, the Lady Sarah has had 
her own quiet way of keepjng track of 
Lord Beiley, of noting the change in him, 
of measuring him by the comparative 
standard of other men, — a motley horde 
of minstrels, farm hands, stone-breakers, 
tramps, thieves, with here and there an 
honest man thrown in for sake of variety, 
— and discovering that with whomsoever 
he was thrown, Lord Beiley held his own 
and won the respect and the liking of his 
fellow-men, because of his inborn sterling 
qualities. So that at last the Lady Sarah 
comes to feel that his desertion of her 
was a blessing to them both, because it 
taught each of them that life was not 
quite worth while without the other. The 
only blemish the book has is an occasional 
interpolated chapter, in which the point 
of view shifts to the Lady Sarah. The 
story is essentially and emphatically Lord 
Beiley's story; and the only reason for 
any shifting of the standpoint is an un- 
willingness to take the slight additional 
trouble of so constructing that Lady 
Sarah's mental attitude shall be made 
known to us through the medium of Lord 
Beiley's own knowledge. 

My Lady of Cleeve, by Percy J. Hart- 
ley, is an unusually good example of the 

modern Dumas romance, 
"My Lady * e sort ^ at we expect 

of Cleeve" * rom Stanley Weyman at 

his best. Given a beauti- 
ful young woman as 
ringleader in a plot to place James Stuart 
on the English throne, in place of King 
William; a loyal, rough mannered but 
inwardly tender-hearted officer, sent with 
a detail of troops to keep the lady and her 
friends under surveillance ; a duel to the 
death between these two, in the first move 
of which the officer scores, — and you 
have material for a story which an ex- 


"Flower o' 
the Orange' 

perienced reader will enjoy none the less 
for being able to foresee pretty clearly 
what the outcome must be. Of its kind it 
is an admirable piece of work, although 
what has already been said about the 
comparative merits of De Sandros's ver- 
sion of the d'Artagnan story and that of 
Dumas holds good in this case ; one feels 
that it would have had nothing to lose 
and much to gain by being told in the 
third person rather than the first. 

In regard to the new volume of short 
tales by Agnes and Egerton Castle, en- 
titled Flower o' the 
Orange, there is no need 
of saying more than to 
acknowledge a very keen 
pleasure in reading them 
and an equally keen appreciation of the 
delicate art that enters into their con- 
struction. They are literally tales of "by- 
gone days" ; pictures flung vividly upon a 
screen from a remote distance. The au- 
thors do not make the attempt to get 
inside the characters, to show us those 
vanished scenes through the eyes of any 
one of the participants. They simply 
fling them before us, quite impartially, 
saying: Here is what happened on such 
and such a day ; here is what certain per- 
sons said and what they did ; judge for 
yourself what they felt. A simple 
method, but a good one, — none better, if 
consistently carried out ; and the Castles 
have done so beyond cavil. The seven 
stories that make up the contents all have 
merit : if one must choose, the one which 
gives its title to the volume seems to 
have a rather special claim. 

In conclusion, another volume of short 
stories. The Folk Afield, by Eden Phill- 
potts, offers a certain interest to the 

many readers who regard the author of 
The Good Red Earth as a personage of 
some import in modern 
"The Folk fiction. Mr. Phillpotts 

^yjgj ,„ has been so long identi- 

fied with a narrow sec- 
tion of England, and more 
particularly with the farming class of that 
section, that a whole volume of exotic 
tales, dealing with Frenchmen, Sicilians, 
Arabs, the various races that border upon 
the Mediterranean, is surely a departure 
sufficiently strange and unexpected to 
justify a passing word. Yet when we 
look closer into these stories we find they 
are not, after all, so very different from 
the author's usual work. In France, in 
Italy, in Algiers, his interest remains, as 
always, with the substratum of humanity, 
the peasantry, the people close to the soil. 
And while these stories are largely stories 
of hot passions and revenge, they are 
scarcely fiercer or more cruel than the 
motives of many of his Dartmoor trage- 
dies, — the action moves more swiftly, 
that is the main difference. What the 
present reviewer likes best in the volume 
is the semi-humorous account, in "A 
Pilgrimage to Pigna," of how a self-cen- 
tered young Englishman carries an aged 
Italian peasant woman forty miles in a 
racing motor-car, for a last glimpse of 
her birthplace, and incidentally gives the 
poor old creature a fright that eniJs her 
days. It is a slight story, written with a 
keen appreciation of relative values, with 
the point of view so chosen that we re- 
ceive throughout a vivid impression of 
what is passing in the minds of both the 
principal actors. 

Frederic Taber Cooper: 


N view of the indig- 
nation which Anatole 
France's recently pub- 
lished Vic dc Jeanne 
d'Arc, reviewed else- 
where in this issue, seems 
already to have aroused 
in certain quarters, it is not without in- 
terest to glance back over the author's 

earlier writings, and seek to discover 
what sort of a biography of the Maid of 
Orleans could have reasonably been ex- 
pected from the impressionistic critic of 
La Vie Littcraire, the philosophic sceptic 
of l.e Jar din a" Epicure, the indulgent 
ironist of M. Bergcral. The first fact 
which such a quest reveals is that the de- 
sire to write a life of Jeanne d'Arc is not 



of recent date ; vaguely and without fixed 
purpose, it had begun to germinate in his 
mind almost a quarter of a century ago. 
Again and again, some other writer's 
attempt to portray the Maid in poem or 
drama or biography stirred him to ironic 
protest ; no modern author either in prose 
or verse, even approximately embodied 
his ideal; no one later than Valerandus 
Varanius, who wrote a Latin epic poem 
early in the sixteenth century, even ap- 
proached the subject in a proper spirit. 
What Anatole France's ideal then was, 
he has embodied in numerous lyric pages 
such as this : 

Jeanne is made out of pure poetry. She 
has risen out of popular and Christian 
poetry; out of litanies of the Virgin and the 
Golden Legend; out of those marvellous 
histories of the brides of Christ who donned 
above the white robes of virginity the red 
robes of martyrdom. She is the outcome 
of those flowery sermons in which the sons 
of St. Francis exalted poverty, candour and 
innocence; the outcome of the eternal fairy 
lore of woods and fountains, the naive 
stories of our grandparents, those recitals, 
as obscure and fresh as nature herself, in 
which the daughters of the field receive 
supernatural gifts; she is the outcome of 
the land of oaks, where Vivian and Merlin 
Arthur and his knights lived their mys- 
terious life; she is the outcome of that lofty 
thought which makes the rose of fire bloom 
above the portals of churches; she is sprung 
from prophecies, in which the humble folk 
of the Kingdom of France foretold a hap- 
pier future; she is sprung from the ecstasy 
and the tears of an entire people; she is 
the living poetry of that fair France which 
he loved with a miraculous love. 

Curiously enough, however, the form 
in which Anatole France first thought of 
embodying Jeanne d'Arc was not that of 
biography, but rather a sort of musical 

The piece that I dream of is a chronicle 
in dialogue, accompanied by music; for it 
must be a blend of the ideal and the real. 
It must be a work at once truly popular 
and truly national. I do not want it to 
be a work of art in the usual acceptation 
of the term. I want something bigger 
and something better. I want it to be a 
work of faith and one that will speak to the 

souls of men. And f ask that the author 
who writes it shall become, for the time 
being, a man of the fifteenth century. 

A year or two later, in his criticism of 
Mme. Bernhardt's Jeanne d'Arc, when 
she appeared in the drama by Jules Bar- 
bier, we find that his ideas have more 
nearly crystallised : 

I believe that there is nothing in the lifa 
of Jeanne d'Arc which will not yield, a* 
last analysis, to a rational interpretation. 
There, as elsewhere, miracles cannot with- 
stand an attentive examination of facts. 
The mistake of her biographers is to isolate 
this young girl too completely, to enclose 
her within a chapel. They ought, on the 
contrary, to place her in her natural group, 
in the midst of prophetesses and those 
gifted with second sight, who swarmed in 
those days — Guillemette de la Roche, whom 
Charles V. summoned to Paris about 1380, 
the blessed Hermine de Reims, . . . and 
others who, in common with Jeanne, had 
visions, revelations and the gift of 

So much for M. Anatole France's orig- 
inal conception of what a life of Jeanne 
d'Arc ought to be. Regarding his views 
in general upon the writing of history he 
has put himself on record with equal 
frankness : 

If I had to choose between beauty and 
truth, I should not hesitate in the least; 
of the two, I should retain beauty, confident 
that it embodies a higher and profounder 
truth than truth itself. I would even ven- 
ture to say that there is nothing true in 
all the world apart from beauty. But why 
choose? Why substitute statistical history 
for narrative history? It is like replacing 
a rose with a potato. ... I know as well 
as you that history is false and that all 
historians, from Herodotus to Michelet, are 
tellers of fables. But that does not annoy 
me. I am quite willing that a Herodotus 
should deceive me, because he does it with 
good taste; I will let myself be dazzled by 
the sombre glow of the aristocratic 
thoughts of a Tacitus; I will dream again, 
with delight, the dreams of that grand 
blind man who beheld Harold and Fre- 
degonde. I should even regret to have his- 
tory made more exact; . . . narrative 
history is essentially inexact— this I have 
admitted,, and will not retract — but side by 


. that 

i- would retain, with grave respect, the 
whole mass of legend that has grown up 
around the memory of the Maid — not be- 
cause he gives credence to any part of 
thoiii. but for the sake of what they stand 
for in the history of a race ; and finally, 
tlint in dealing with the logical and ob- 
vious facts of campaigns and battles, lie 
would summarily brush aside tradition 
with 110 more compunction than he showed 
in brushing aside the accepted view 
about Pontius Pilate, in the most auda- 
cious short story he ever wrote — Le Pro- 
cnratair de Judec. 

Talbot TonnrtUcr. 



; vi'lKR S 

,■> iui*i w the """! 

■ 'rriottf weaver of 
'i' instead of the most 

^1 .<,lv <|W!ltIUU'OllS Of 

I * . she could not 
ESW impulse » ■=" 
I , , with WW ■»"»' "■ 
Co decided 'o renounce 
" ,„ the fourth day after 
.-..--* "s-mhAi she received an al- 
v. ■ "» '■' 1 note iron' Da ">' ask '"S 
„ .dw" V, rt invitation ami dine 
i. . ••>r t * at six o'clock. The con- 
. ..> •■";' family calamity averted 
^v***"" ' ' n . Hue of the common- 
v ,«oKv : "' ; although outwardly it 

•» v 2f,«i** bey °'" 1 a " elf " s,ve , rc - 

j*" 1- YlJv had »nlv met once since lsa- 
S***^ , Waterford, and then for 

•*'*&**** s° in s t|ir0l, e h the ,ast 

S****, , trying scene with Miss Cos- 
#*" °the subject of her great decision 
^A* J *i |C letter was brought in; and, 
%Utf* —j (l it. she tossed it across the 
** x *!rith a little smile of malicious satis- 

*fflj wanted me to get on with the 

•Copyright, it*) j- 190!, by 



Careys, so you ought to be satisfied now! 
I couldn't have done the two things!" 

Miss Costello sighed heavily. "Easy 
for them to be nice to you now!" she 
said, as she put the note down. "Indeed, 
when I was a girl, it wasn't to be taking 
things into my own hands like that I 

Isabel gave a still louder sigh. "You've 
said that ten times, Aunt Teresa! I 
don't suppose you ever were like mc, or 
that I will ever be like you." 

"Indeed you won't! No one but your 
father's daughter would have thrown 
away such a chance as that !" 

"Well, would you rather I didn't go to 
the Careys?" 

"I didn't say so. I suppose half a 
loaf is better than no bread— though 
indeed 'twas very different society your 
grandmother was in in the County 

Isabel rose from the horse-hair arm- 
chair in which she was sitting huddled 
tip. "Is it evening dress. I wonder!" 

"Evening dress! What for?" 

"Nothing! I was only wondering! 
At school all the girls used to dress for 
dinner when they were home on the 

•Catherine Cecil Tbnnton] • 





"Well, you won't find many people in 
Waterford dressing for their dinner. I 
suppose old Barny Carey would turn 
in his grave with pride if he saw people 
sitting at his son's table in evening 
dress !" 

•Well, what'll I wear then?" 

"Your white blouse, I suppose. 

"Oh, auntie, it's awfully dirty! 

"Wear your pink, then." 

"But he saw me in that on Sunday!" 
She said the words unthinkingly; then 
paused, blushing. 

But Miss Costello was not observant. 
"Is it Stephen Carey?" 


"And do you think he'd have seen 
what you had on? He's not a bachelor, 
that he'd be noticing a girl's clothes! 
Wear your pink!" 

Isabel accepted the decision, not be- 
cause she had nothing further to urge 
upon the subject, but because the scanty 
condition of her wardrobe was elo- 
quently present to her mind. So in her 
pink muslin dress, with a sailor hat 
covering her hair and a dark ulster hid- 
ing her finery, she started that evening 
from New Town as the city clocks were 
striking half-past five. 

There is no necessity for a chaperon 
at any hour in an Irish town, and it 
would be looked upon as extravagance 
for a young girl of Isabel's position to 
drive to a dinner-party. On foot, there- 
fore, and alone, she started for Lady 
Lane, and with the cool evening air blow- 
ing in from the sea, and the thought of 
the enterprise acting as a stimulus, it 
was an undertaking full of interest, for 
much of portent centred round this invi- 
tation ; in the Careys' set young girls are 
not usually asked out to dine ; they have 
their allotted place at dances and at even- 
ing parties, but dinners are generally dull 
affairs reserved for the married of the 
community, and this invitation of Daisy's 
was a mark of special and premeditated 
grace — at once a balm for previous 
coldness and a promise of future 

As Isabel approached the house her 
steps became slower, and as she crossed 
the road, she looked quickly up at the 
windows, wondering which was Carey's 
— the place where he smoked, where he 

read, where he thought those strange, 
circumscribed thoughts that he had ex- 
pressed in the room at New Town ; then 
she slowly mounted the steps and rang 
the bell. 

The door was opened to her by Julia, 
whose face was red from excitement and 
services rendered to the cook, and whose 
cap and apron were aggressively starched 
in honour of the evening's festivity. 

"You'll take off your hat and jacket, 
won't you, Miss Costello?" she said, 
proud to display her recognition of the 

"Thanks! Yes!" 

"All right so ! You can leave them in 
the spare room. I'll show you the way 

She piloted Isabel up the wide stair- 
case, where the walls were devoid of pic- 
tures, but betrayed the ostentatious pros- 
perity that new paint and paper argues 
in Ireland. On the first landing they 
passed the door of the drawing-room, 
which was half open, and through 
which the loud sound of laughter and 
voices came rather dauntingly to the visi- 
tor. On the second floor Julia opened 
the door of a bedroom — the same bed- 
room in which Daisy and Mary had 
dressed on the night of the dance — and 
Isabel looked round curiously as she 
stepped across the threshold and began 
to unfasten her coat. 

It was a large room, bare of wall and 
high of ceiling, as are so many Irish 
rooms, possessing the lofty, square-paned 
windows of another generation, that rat- 
tle to every passing wind and permit the 
daylight to search out every cranny and 
recess with merciless rigour. Here, too, 
as in the hall downstairs, there was a veil 
of ugly modernity thrown over the char- 
acter of the place; two or three pieces 
of fine old furniture stood against the 
walls, but in glaring contrast to their 
dark solidity a new brass bedstead 
flaunted its existence, while curtains of 
limp art muslin hung from the massive 
cornices of the windows. Isabel con- 
demned the taste that had designed it, 
while she handed her coat to the servant 
and went across to the dressing-table to 
take off her hat. "If I had her money!" 
she thought ; and she heaved a sigh. 

"Would you like a comb, Miss Cos- 



Norris laughed involuntarily. "But 
seriously, Polly," he said, 'look what 
you and Daisy could do, if you cared a 
straw! You could start classes in pri- 
vate houses, like they do in London." 

"Public houses suit the scholars here 
ever so much better. Don't they, Father 
Cunningham ?" 

"Oh, well, of course, if that's 
your attitude — " Norris shrugged his 

"But, Tom," Daisy put in plaintively, 
"how on earth could I do anything — 
with Stephen and the children ?" 

"Well, Marv hasn't anv children!" 

"I like that f As if I hadn't a father- 
worse than thirty children! I'd like to 
see how many lectures you'd give and 
how many classes you'd attend if you 
had to mend father's socks! Here's 
Stephen, Daisy! I heard the hall door 

This announcement put a stop to fur- 
ther argument, and a few minutes after- 
ward Carev himself entered. He looked 
very tall and strong in the fading day- 
light that filled the room, and as he 
joined the circle it seemed that he 
brought with him a breath of the outer 
air, and the vitality and energy of the 
outer world. 

He took Isabel's hand first of all, and 
although his greeting was ordinary, 
the friendly pressure of his fingers ban- 
ished her diffidence, and she uncon- 
sciously lifted her head, looking out 
upon the scene with renewed self-confi- 

There was a moment or two of frag- 
mentary talk, then Daisy rose ; and, with- 
out preserving any particular order, the 
party straggled out of the room and 
downstairs. In the dining-room the big 
gasolier above the dinner-table was blaz- 
ing with light, and on the table itself a 
display of the old cut glass, for which 
Waterford is famous, cast back the light 
from its facets, while the silver, of which 
Daisy was justly proud, was burnished 
to look its best. The higher refinements 
of civilisation may not be found in such 
households as the Norris's and the Ca- 
reys', but an amazing number of valu- 
able articles are handed down from 
generation to generation in these middle- 
class families, and the pantry of many 

an Irish housekeeper would fill the col- 
lector with envy. 

When the party had sorted itself out 
and the seats round the large table were 
all occupied, it proved that Isabel's place 
was between young Norris and Father 
Baron. Very little was said while the 
soup and fish were eaten, for a meal in 
Ireland usually means a meal; but when 
the cover was removed from a joint of 
beef, and Carey entered on the task of 
carving, ideas began to stir again and 
the hum of opinions to make itself 

"Well, Father James, you were very 
silent up in the drawing-room!" Norris 
remarked, leaning across Isabel. "How 
is the movement going on down at Scar- 

Father James Baron was a man of 
sixty-eight, with a high colour, grizzled 
hair and a wide mouth tempered with the 
love of his kind. He was priest of the 
smallest and most insignificant parish in 
his diocese, and a man of little worldly 
polish; but something deeper than the 
learning of books looked at you out of 
his small eyes, and when you heard him 
speak you listened, however homely the 
words might be. There was true metal 
in the man, and you felt without explana- 
tion that it had been tempered in the 
furnace. He turned slowly now, and 
looked at Tom with the humorous indul- 
gence of a father to his child. 

"Well! Well! Well !" he said slowly. 
"And is it a little place like Scarragh 
you're going to turn your hand to now ?" 

"We must have every place interested, 
Father James," Norris retorted quickly. 
"No place is too small. What we want 
is undivided interest." 

Isabel could restrain her curiositv no 
longer. "What is it you're talking 
about?" she said. "I'd simply love to 
know !" 

Norris's face lighted up, full of enthu- 
siasm at once. "Why, the great new 
movement," he said — "the Gaelic move- 
ment. Haven't you heard of all it's do- 

"The Gaelic movement?" 

"Yes," put in Mary across the table, 
"all the children in the ''National Schools 
can say their prayers in Irish now, and 
in a lot of the towns they've written up 



hope you aren't going to be so fastidi- 

The suggestion was a little awkward, 
considering the secret shared by three 
of the party as to Isabel's broken engage- 
ment, but Isabel received it frankly and 
without embarrassment. "I don't know 
that I'll ever marry anybody, Mrs. 

Mrs. Power looked up at her, standing 
behind Daisy's chair; and something a 
little lonely, a little aloof in the solitary 
figure and the uncommon face touched 
her motherly nature. 

"Ah, my dear, I won't have you saying 
that!" She put out her hand and took 
possession of Isabel's. "I'll find a hus- 
band for you — whether you like it or 
not !" 

Isabel flushed, her expression soft- 
ening, her eyes lighting at the kindly 
thought for her welfare. "Oh, thank 
you!" she said. "I mean, thank you for 
caring whether I get married or not !" 

Mary gave a faint little laugh. 

Isabel's flush deepened, but from a 
new emotion. "Why did you laugh?" 
she said, turning quickly round. 

Mary looked at her coolly. "Oh, no 
reason ! It just amused me." 


"No reason !" 

Mrs. Power felt the hand she was 
holding tremble, and she oressed it 
soothingly. "Don't mind Mary!" she 
said. "She doesn't mean half she says. 
And, indeed, if you don't marry, it won't 
be the men's fault. I'll venture to say 

"I'd only marry for one reason," Isa- 
bel said suddenly, "and if I hadn't that 
reason, all the people in the world 
couldn't persuade me." 

"And what's that?" Daisy asked curi- 

"The reason of caring for the person." 

Daisy laughed. "Love in a cottage?" 
she said a little patronisingly. 

Isabel's dark eyes flashed. "If I cared, 
I'd marry a beggar ; and if I didn't care, 
it wouldn't matter to me if the person 
was a king." 

The three listeners fell silent for a mo- 
ment. To Mrs. Power, with her long 
life and superior experience, Isabel's 
declaration seemed merely the folly of a 

young girl just out of school; while to 
Daisy it appeared the cunning of one 
who had lately been worsted in a vital 
social encounter. To Mary alone out of 
the party, it suggested something more — 
offering sudden glimpses into the depths 
and shallows of the nature behind the 

Isabel looked round from one face to 
the other. "I suppose I oughtn't to have 
said that!" 

Mrs. Power laughed and patted her 
hand. "My dear child, say anything you 
*like ! But you have plenty of time to be 
thinking of love ! And that reminds me, 
I told Josephine to write you a little 
note, asking you up to tennis. You have 
six boys of mine still to meet, you know." 

Isabel thanked her by a look; and 
Daisy, influenced at once by the fact of 
the invitation, drew her chair nearer. 

"Indeed, we all want to see more of 
Isabel," she said. "She mustn't be a 
stranger any more. Mary, will you ring 
for tea ? I don't know what they can be 
doing downstairs." 

And so the talk became less personal; 
and with the arrival of tea, the two mar- 
ried women drifted toward the table on 
which Julia placed the tray. As Daisy 
filled up the cups, their voices impercep- 
tibly dropped to the gossiping key, and 
Isabel and Mary found themselves shut 
out into an undesired companionship. 

Taking their cups from Daisy, they 
wandered away, as in duty bound, toward 
the other end of the room. Mary was 
the first to break the silence. "I'm sorry 
if I was nasty w r hile ago," she said, lay- 
ing her cup on the top of the piano. In 
the few moments that had passed since 
Mrs. Power's invitation, she had decided 
that a little trimming of sails would be 
necessary if her boat and Isabel's were to 
float upon the same waters. "Everybody 
is a bit cross now and then, don't you 

Isabel, fully conscious of her own er- 
ratic moods, saw an impulse of remorse 
in the words, and met it generously. 
M, Twas nothing!" she said. "I was 
nasty, too. Let us forget about it !" 

"Yes ; I want to. Do you play?" 


r Do you mind if I play?" 

f Oh, no ! I love music." 





Mary seated herself at the piano and 
began to play — passing carelessly from 
classical music to the newest comic song. 
She played well, almost brilliantly, with a 
hard, sharp touch ; and as she played, she 
looked up at Isabel, who was leaning over 
the piano and watching her with 
interested eyes. "Is there anything 
you'd like? I can play most things by 

Isabel hesitated; then she said: "Play 
that waltz, 'Amoreuse.' " 

Immediately Mary complied, and after 
a few bars looked up again. "They 
played that at Fair Hill. 'Twas the 
waltz you danced with Stephen." 

"Yes, I know." 

There was another pause, and again 
Mary's quick green eyes were lifted. 
"How do you get on with Stephen?" 

Isabel drew back a little. "Get on 
with him? Oh, I don't know! All 
right, I think." 

"And what do you think of him?" 

"Think of him? How?" 

"As a person." 

"Oh, I— I don't know." 

Mary looked down at the keys, and the 
waltz became slower. "He's a queer fish 
— Stephen! He hates the very sight 
of me." 


She shrugged her shoulders. "Per- 
haps I see through him more than other 
people do — and he hates being seen 

Isabel's lips parted in quick question, 
but they closed again at the sound of an 
opening door. "Oh, here they are !" she 

Mary glanced over her shoulder at the 
four men entering the room. "Yes, here 
they are — when they want their tea!" 
And the waltz came to a conclusion with 
a few crashing chords. 

The last words of the discussion were 
evidently hot upon the men's lips, and 
Norris and Father Cunningham made at 
once for the tea-table, where Tom, with a 
careless nod to Daisy, poured out two 
cups of tea. 

"Well, I think we did for them !" he 
said in a low voice. "We didn't leave 
Stephen a leg to stand on." 

The young priest stirred his tea 
thoughtfully. "I don't like your brother- 

in-law's views," he said. "They're dan- 
gerous views for an influential man." 

Tom laughed. "Oh, Stephen doesn't 
mean all he says !" 

"Perhaps not ! I hope not !" 

"Of course not! You're a regular 
pessimist sometimes." 

Father Cunningham still stirred his tea 

"He's a very able man !" he said in the 
same musing undertone. 

"Able? You may say that! There 
are few men the equal of Stephen, when 
he cares to show it. Hallo ! They're not 
going, are they? Is it as late as that?" 

"Indeed, it is, Tom!" Mrs. Power 
caught the last words as she rose to say 
good-bye. "It's time for all good peo- 
ple to be thinking of their homes." 

"Wh.'it nonsense, Mrs. Power! The 
night is young !" 

" Tis, Tom — for young people. But 
'tis time for me to be thinking of my 

"Indeed, you needn't trouble about 
your family! You'll find them all play- 
ing bridge." 

She laughed good-naturedly. "All the 
more reason to go home and pack them 
off to bed. Good-night, Daisy I It's 
been a delightful evening." 

Daisy protested prettily. "Oh, no, 
Mrs. Power! You're not going! Please 
don't go!" 

"I must, dear. I must, really. I prom- 
ised to be back early. But don't let me 
break up the party!" 

But the going of one guest sets the 
minds of all the others tending toward 
departure, and one by one excuses were 
made. Father Cunningham had a six 
o'clock mass to say next morning; 
Father Baron had to catch the last train 
to Scarragh ; and finally Isabel pleaded 
that Miss Costello would be expecting 
her soon aften ten. 

In a very few minutes all the good- 
byes had been said, and the four women 
had left, to seek the spare room and the 
guests' wraps. 

"Your dinners are always such a suc- 
cess, Daisy!" Mrs. Power murmured, as 
she tied her bonnet-strings. "I don't 
know how it is, but somehow you have 
the knack of entertaining." 

Daisy, who had no more knowledge 



of entertaining than a child of three, 
smiled delightedly at the harmless flat- 
tery. "Indeed, I don't know!" she de- 
murred. "I don't think I do much !" 

"Ah, you say that ! But I must be off ! 
How is Miss Costello going home? It 
would be nothing for me to drive round 
with her, if she hasn't told anybody to 

"Oh, no !" Isabel protested. "It's al- 
together out of your way ; 'twas too kind 
of you to do it even the night of the 

"Not at all! The horse hasn't been 
out before to-day, and a little exercise 
would do him good." 

"Oh, no, Mrs. Power," Daisy expostu- 
lated. "Tom will take Isabel home." 

Mrs. Power smiled knowingly. "Ah, 
well then, I wouldn't take her for the 
world ! Good-night, Daisy, dear ! Mary, 
I think Josephine is expecting you up 
to-morrow! Good-night, my dear — I'll 
have to call you Isabel — Miss Costello is 
altogether too stiff !" She kissed all three 
in turn and then bustled out of the room 
and down to the hall, where she had 
another effusive farewell with Carey, 
Norris and the two priests. 

When the door closed on her Carey 
turned to Daisy. "Who's going to take 
Miss Costello home?" 

"Tom is," Mary interposed before her 
sister could reply. 

"Oh ! All right !" Carey turned aside 
and jointed Father Baron ; while Mary's 
eyes, maliciously humorous, flashed over 
Isabel's face 

"It's too bad !" Isabel said quickly. "I 
could easily go by myself." 

'Oh, Tom won't mind, I assure you!" 

'What's that, Polly?" 

'I'm saying that you don't particularly 
object to seeing girls home." 

Tom laughed. "Not if Miss Costello 
is one of them! Are you ready now, 
Miss Costello? I won't keep you a min- 
ute." He disappeared into the recesses 
of the hall, and returned with his cap on 
and his arm through the sleeve of his 

"Now we're ready!" he said cheer- 
fully. "Give me a lift, Father John !" 

Father Cunningham helped him into 
the coat, while Carey went forward to 
open the hall door. 




Isabel kissed Daisy and Mary, shook 
hands with the priests, and then followed 
Tom, who had already stepped out into 
the street, humming a patriotic tune. 
On the threshold Carey put out his 

"Good-night, Miss Costello! We 
hadn't a word at all this evening." 

Isabel said nothing. 

"Next time, perhaps!" 

"Perhaps!" She looked up and they 
both smiled. 

"Good-night !" 

"Good-night!" The hall door closed, 
and she was alone with Norris. 

They turned out of Lady Lane in 
silence, but as they crossed the Mall he 
broke forth once more in his usual en- 
thusiastic spirit. "Well, Miss Costello," 
he said, "and what do you think of your 
native town, now that you are back 
again ? 

"Well, it seems rather strange," Isabel 
answered thoughtfully — "or I am 
strange — I don't know which it is." 

Tom nodded sagely. "Do you know, 
I felt just the same myself," he confided 
to her, "when I came home from college. 
There's no use denying it, you know; it 
seems a bit narrow at first." 

"And you have to squeeze down to 
fit it?" 

"Ah, well, no! Ah, no! 1 wouldn't 
say that. You know, we're an interesting 
people, Miss Costello, wherever we are — 
only it doesn't show up at first in places 
like Waterford." 

Isabel did not at once subscribe to this, 
and Tom branched off into a new chan- 
nel. "Tell me, now," he said, "weren't 
you at school in Dublin before you went 
abroad ?" 

"Oh, yes, ever since my father died. I 
only went to France two years ago." 

"And did they take any interest at all 
there in the new movement? Did they 
open vour minds at all to the future of 

Isabel laughed. "I don't know that 
they opened our minds to anything." 

"There you are !" Tom threw out his 
arms in vivid despair. "There you are! 
How on earth are we going to form the 
nation when women are turned out in 
batches year by year with French and 
German at their fingers' ends and no 



more knowledge of their own language 
than infants in arms!" 

Isabel laughed again. "I don't know 
about fingers' ends!" she said. "I was 
able to say my prayers in French when I 
went to Paris, but that was about all." 

"What a shame !" Tom cried, following 
his own train of thought. "The most re- 
ceptive years of your life lost! But it's 
not too late, you know ; it's not too late ! 
I wish, Miss Costello, you'd interest your- 
self in the cause. If we could only induce 
the educated women to take it up seri- 
ously, we could move mountains." 

"And do you think it will do any real 
good?" Isabel ventured. 

"Good?" He turned on her, aflame 
with enthusiasm in a moment — the en- 
thusiasm that has sent Irishmen down to 
death in the wake of lost causes for more 
generations than one cares to count. 
"Good? Why, it's going to make a 
nation of us ! It's going to lift us to the 
level of the rest of Europe ! It's the one 
movement that has really touched the 
bed-rock of things — that has a sound and 
true foundation. I'm not tiring you?" 
He looked up as he felt her steps 

"Oh, no! It's only that we're here. 
This is my aunt's." 

His face fell. "Oh, I wish I could have 
told you more ! The walk was miserably 
short. But let me ring the bell for you !" 
He strode up the little path before her 
and rang the bell loudly. 

"Does it interest you at all ?" he asked, 
as he turned to say good-night. 

"Oh, I think it's — it's most interest- 

"I'm so glad* I'm so glad. I must 
talk to you again. Good-bye! And 
thanks for a most delightful walk !" He 
rung her hand cordially while they heard 
the chain being taken off the door. 

As he walked down the path the door 
itself was opened, and Miss Costello's 
face appeared in the aperture; almost 
before she had seen her niece she broke 
volubly into speech. 

"Oh, Isabel!" she cried. "I thought 
you'd never be back ! Such a time as I 
have had! There's a telegram for you 
that came at ei^ht o'clock. I half thought 
of sending Lizzie up with it to the 
Careys', but then I didn't." 

"Thank goodness you didn't!" said 
Isabel, as she walked into the hall. 

"Well, here 'tis now, anyway!" She 
held out the orange envelope. "Open it! 
Open it and see what it is! I have an 
awful sort of a feeling that it's from 

"From Frank? Nonsense!" But Isa- 
bel turned a little pale as she walked 
toward the gas-jet, tearing the envelope 

For a moment she stood reading the 
message with a calm that reduced Miss 
Costello to despair ; then she held out the 
thin pink paper. 

"You're quite right, Aunt Teresa !" she 
said in a dazed voice. "It is from Frank. 
He's got my letter, and he's coming back 
to see me. He'll be here to-morrow." 


The arrival of this telegram from 
Frank Carey had something of the force 
and decimating power of a bomb ex- 
ploding in peaceful surroundings. Under 
any circumstances the coming of a tele- 
gram causes excitement in such house- 
holds as Miss Costello's; but when the 
fateful envelope holds within it such 
news as this, excitement cools before 
actual panic. 

Isabel's first desire was to sink into the 
solitary chair that graced the hall ; but 
that being already in possession of her 
aunt, she was forced to accept the near- 
est substitute, which proved to be the 
lowest step of the stairs; and from this 
coign of vantage she looked out blankly 
upon the situation. 

"To-morrow!" she ejaculated. "To- 
morrow ! That means he'll get in by the 
boat at some unearthly hour in the morn- 

Miss Costello, who was still scrutinis- 
ing the telegram, answered from her own 
thoughts. "He handed this in just be- 
fore the boat left," she said. "He's 
actually on his way now." 

Isabel made a gesture of despair. 
"What'll his brother think ! He'll think 
I didn't properly break it off. Oh, what 
on earth possessed him to do such a 
thing ! What on earth possessed him !" 



"Your letter, of course ! I must say I 
feel for the poor fellow !" 

"And why should my letter make him 
do such a thing? I think it's mean — I 
think it's downright mean — to come in on 
us like this ! Never to give us a chance 
of writing — never to give us a chance 
of stopping him !" Her voice rose with 
her distress, and, urged to action, she 
rose to her feet. 

"I won't see him when he does come!" 
she announced. "I don't see why I 
should! You can see him for me, and 
tell him I meant every word I wrote, and 
that nothing in the world would make 
me take it back. Why should I have to 
see him? Why should he torment me 
like this just because I don't want to 
marry him?" 

Miss Costello, finding no pertinent 
answer, resorted to strategy. "If you 
really want to get rid of him," she said, 
" 'twould be ever so much quicker to talk 
to him yourself. It's so hard for another 
person to get a man to see reason." 

Isabel considered the statement. "Well, 
perhaps so!" she admitted reluctantly. 
"Perhaps so! I suppose so!" She 
crossed the hall, took up her bedroom 
candle, and, to her aunt's unfeigned sur- 
prise, walked upstairs without further 

That night she slept little, tossing from 
side to side of her uncomfortable bed, and 
the early hours on the following morning 
found her waiting in the parlour, listen- 
ing with tightly strung nerves to every 
sound that might presage the unwelcome 

To those who would call Isabel cruel 
in the meeting of this crisis, one might 
point to the law of all created things. 
There is no cruelty in the cat that 
crouches, all grace, all deft agility, to 
pounce upon a bird ; nor is there cruelty 
in the bird, hopping, bright and vigilant, 
to destroy a lower life for its own sus- 
tenance. Each is alive, and each to the 
utmost limit of its power exercises its 
gift. Such was Isabel — to be judged as 
such. As she sat on the old horsehair 
sofa, her fingers nervously drumming out 
a tune upon its slippery surface, there was 
no regret in her mind — there was scarcely 
even pride at the thought that her sen- 
tence could bring a man hurrying across 

two countries to plead his cause with her ; 
her racing thoughts sped to one ques- 
tion — how would this new contingency 
affect her own life? 

But in the midst of her cogitations a 
car stopped on the road outside, the gar- 
den gate clicked and swung upon its 
hinges, and her fingers slipped inert from 
the back of the sofa in sudden ac- 
knowledgment that the crisis was at 

She was standing when the parlour 
door opened, her arms hanging by her 
sides, her head lifted in nervous ex- 
pectancy, and almost before her mind 
had grappled with the situation, she 
caught a vision of Lizzie's face, scared 
and inquisitive, and behind it Frank's — 
colourless, jaded, unfamiliar from want 
of sleep and lack of a razor. It is the 
details that stand out from the imagina- 
tion in such moments as this, and it was 
this detail of the unshaven chin that 
sprang to Isabel's mind with the rapidity 
and force of a lightning shaft. It might 
be subtly flattering in its testimony of un- 
sparing haste, but as a fact it was revolt- 
ing, chaining her feet to the ground, 
making it impossible even to hold out her 

The door closed upon the servant; 
Frank hesitated for a moment, then took 
an uneven step forward. 

"Isabel! Have you nothing to say 
to me? I've come all the wav from 
Paris!" The words were pathetic, and 
there was pathos in the weak, emotional 
face and the lower lip that seemed on the 
verge of quivering ; but these things went 
down, marks as black as the unshaven 
chin, against the hapless 4over. 

"Isabel! What does it all mean? 
Haven't you a word to say ?" 

Then, and only then, did Isabel con- 
quer her repugnance. "Oh, why did you 
come back?" she cried indistinctly. 
"Why did you come back at all ?" 

"Why? You know why!" He made 
an awkward movement toward her and 
caught one of her hands. ''Isabel, what 
is it? Don't try to get away!" 

"Let me go, Frank ! Let my hand go !" 

"No, I won't let it go. I have a right 
to hold it. We're engaged still." 

"We are not engaged." She wrenched 
her hand away. 



"Isabel ! What's the meaning of it all ? 
It's Stephen who's done this!" 

She flushed up to her temples.^ "It is 
not ! He has nothing to do with it !" 

"Then who has?" 

"No one. 


"That's ridiculous! Something must 
have happened to change you like this. 
In Paris you cared for me — in Paris you 
were willing enough to marry me." 

She stood with her eyes averted, an ob- 
stinate line showing round her mouth. 

"Isabel, some one has done this!" 

Suddenly her glance flashed up to his. 
"Nobody has done it," she said sharply. 
"If you want to know the truth, it's be- 
cause I don't care for you any more — be- 
cause I'm tired of you — because I'd 
iather die than marry you now !" 

This onslaught, so sudden and vehe- 
ment, seemed to sober him, as a shock 
might sober a drunken man. 

He turned very white and subsided into 
a chair that stood by the centre table. 
There he sat, huddled and inarticulate, 
until slowly, almost imperceptibly, the 
Celtic flair for an emotional situation 
prompted him to action. The prompting 
was entirely instinctive and his response 
to it entirely unconscious ; but a world of 
suggestion was conveyed by his fingers, 
as they groped cautiously toward his 
waistcoat pocket and fumbled there in a 
blind, clumsy search. 

Isabel, strung to emotion herself, at- 
tuned to receive the subtlest impression, 
felt her heart give a hard, quick throb. 

"Frank, what have you there in your 
pocket? What are you doing?" 


"But I see you fumbling with some- 
thing. What is it? Frank, what is it?" 

A gleam of satisfaction, overstrained 
and hysterical, flickered in his eyes; he 
threw a glance of triumph at her fright- 
ened face. "All right so!" he said sud- 
denly. "I'll tell you what it is. It's 
something that'll end the business for me, 
if you want to know. A fellow isn't a 
doctor for nothing." He pulled out a 
little phial containing half a dozen tab- 
loids and held it up before her. 

It is impossible to tell in what spirit of 
bravado or youthful conceit he had pro- 
vided himself with this weapon, but he 
launched it now with full effect. 

'Oh, no, a fellow isn't a doctor for 
nothing!" he repeated. "I have only to 
swallow one of these, and I can tell you, 
women and the rest won't matter much to 

Isabel stared, then she made a little 
rush forward. "Frank! Frank, don't 
be a fool !" 

She wrested the little bottle from him 
before he thought of resistance, and then 
stood, half laughing, half panting— her 
head thrown back. 

"Frank, 'tisn't worth that !" Then she 
stopped, dismayed, for Frank in a mo- 
ment of acute reaction had thrown his 
arms out across the table, and burying his 
face in his sleeve, had broken suddenly 
into boyish, hysterical sobs. 

For a couple of minutes she stood pet- 
rified; then a sense of shame for him 
urged her to words. 

"Frank, don't! Don't! I'm sorry!" 

"But do you care for me, that's the 
thing? Do you care?" 

She was silent. 

"Do you care?" He lifted a face gro- 
tesquely marred by emotion, weariness 
and tears. But you don't ! I can see you 
don't. Oh, I'm sick of life !" His head 
dropped back again. 

"No, Frank, you're not!" She girded 
up her courage and slipped the little 
bottle surreptitiously into her pocket. 
"It's only that you are worn out, that you 
don't know what you're saying." 

He buried his head still lower. 

"Frank, look here ! Wait till— till you 
have had something to eat — ". She 
looked distractedly round for inspiration. 
"Wait tili you have had breakfast, and 
you'll feel a different person." 

He looked up indignantly. "Breakfast I 
Well, if that isn't like a woman ! Break- 
fast, when a fellow's life is smashed !" 

But Isabel glanced quickly behind her ; 
then gave his sleeve a jerk, to rouse him 
to self-control. "Frank, here's Aunt Te- 
resa !" she whispered hurriedly. "Frank, 
pull yourself together!" 

But he had gone beyond the sense of 
shame, and turned toward the door, 
without attempting to wipe either the 
tears or the grime of travel from his face. 

"Well, Miss Costello, I suppose you 
are against me, too?" 

At sight of him, Miss Costello threw 



up her hands in sympathetic dismay. 
"Oh, my poor boy ! My poor boy ! Is it 
as bad as that?" 

At the unexpected tone, Frank's self- 
pity welled up anew. "I'm glad somebody 
feels the injustice of it! Though, so far 
as I'm concerned, it's all up with me! 
I'm done for !" 

"Oh, don't say that! Don't say that, 
Frank !" 

He shook his head. " Tis the truth— 
and she knows it." 

"Indeed, I don't!" Isabel broke in ;> "I 
hope you're more of a man that that." 

Miss Costello looked from one to the 
other in tremulous consternation. "Oh, 
what an unfortunate business it all is!" 
she wailed. "And it was all so nice and 
settled till that brother of yours inter- 

Frank flared up. "I thought so!" 
he cried, turning round upon Isabel. 
"I thought so ! So it is Stephen I have 
to thank for it." 

Isabel stood mute and rebellious. 

"I believe you weren't telling the truth 
while ago," he added quickly. "I believe 
you care for me all the time, and that 
Stephen worked on you and made you do 
it. Isabel, tell me! Miss Costello, ask 
her to tell me !" 

They both turned on the girl, standing 
defiant and apart. 

"Isabel, you cared for me in Paris! 
Miss Costello, you know she cared for 
me then !" 

"Indeed I do. Indeed I do, Frank. 
Isabel, why can't you answer the poor 

Still Isabel stood obstinately mute. 

"Isabel, was it Stephen? Did Stephen 
play on you?" 

"No !" She shot the word at him with 
fierce vehemence. 

"Then what was it? For God's sake, 
what was it? You can't throw a man 
away like an old glove without any 

"I gave you a reason." 

"It wasn't enough. You can't tire of a 
person in a few weeks — unless, of 
course — " He stopped suddenly, and a 
gleam of suspicion lit his eyes, " — un- 
less you have fallen in love with some- 
body else." 

Isabel turned, swiftly furious, the 


blood mounting to her face. "How dare 
you say that!" 

"I didn't say it. But I believe now 
that that's the secret — or why should you 
get as red as that? I believe you're 
throwing me over because there's an- 
other man." 

The two looked at each other aggres- 
sively, while Miss Costello turned aside 
to mutter an ejaculatory prayer. 

"Some other man has been making 
love to you." 

"No other man has made love to me." 

"Oh, Frank, don't now!" put in Miss 
Costello agitatedly. "Sure, what other 
man could she meet ? We're like nuns in 
a convent here." 

"Be quiet, Aunt Teresa!" Isabel 
stamped her foot. "No man has made 
love to me," she repeated, looking at 

"But you are in love with some man?" 

Her eyes flashed recklessly. "If I said 
'yes' would you leave me alone?" 

"I suppose I would," he said huskily. 
Yes, I would." 

"Very well, then! Think it, if you 
like !" 

Without waiting for his comment, 
heedless of her aunt's horrified cry of 
"Isabel!" she swung out of the room, 
banging the door behind her. 


With Isabel's violent departure a lull 
fell upon the scene — the dead lull that 
envelops the sailing ship when the wind 
drops at sea. Such personalities as hers 
are scarcely conducive to peace, but their 
withdrawal has a property of making re- 
maining things seem singularly dull. 

With the closing of the door, Frank's 
vehemence dropped from him, and he 
rose from his seat in a limp, inexpressive 
way. "I suppose I — I had best go?" he 
said vaguely. 

Miss Costello offered no assistance. 
She was looking nervously toward the 
door, while her fingers kept locking and 

"It's no good my staying here, is it? 
I — I suppose I'll go down to Lady Lane." 
He pushed back his chair and took a turn 
or two up and down the room. 



Miss Costello, whose one desire cen- 
tred round the thought of flight, jumped 
at the last suggestion. "Oh, do! Do! 
I'd advise you to. There's nothing like 
going to the fountain-head." 

He gave a dreary laugh. "Well, she's 
the fountain-head — and you heard what 

"Oh, 'i did ! I did, indeed. But I 
wouldn't be putting any pass on that at 
all, Frank. I give you my solemn pledge 
not another man but you ever said a 
word to her. Have a good talk with 
your brother, and 'twill be all right yet, 
please God!" In her anxiety to be quit 
of the situation, she was ready to 
hold out any hope, reasonable or the 

Frank took another turn, and then 
stopped opposite to her. 

"Well, anyway you can tell her that, 
whoever he is, he'll never care for her 
more than I did." He took up his hat 
and overcoat and, without any attempt at 
farewell, walked out of the room. 

Lady Lane was empty, save for one or 
two loiterers, when the outside car that 
had driven him from New Town drew 
up in front of his brother's house, and 
there were only half a dozen pairs of 
eyes to observe him get down and walk 
slowly up the steps to the hall door ; but 
Stephen Carey, breakfasting with Daisy, 
heard the clatter of hoofs and the stop- 
ping of the car, and looked up from his 
morning paper. 

"Wasn't that a car?" he said. 

Daisy, whose mind was already flying 
to possible contingencies, dropped the 
little bit of toast she was buttering, and 
ran to the window. 

"Oh, Stephen, it's an outside car with 
a bag and a coat on the seat ! And there's 
the hall-door bell ! Who on earth can it 
be at this hour ? And I'm in this awful 
old dress!" 

As she stood panic-stricken at the 
thought of an unexpected guest, the 
dining-room door opened without cere- 
mony and Julia put her head into the 

"Mr. Carey, 'tis Mr. Frank!" she an- 
nounced in a voice charged with excite- 

"Frank I" Daisy cried, as Stephen 
wheeled round in his chair in blank as- 

tonishment; but her surprise melted to 
consternation as she caught sight of the 
apparition of weariness and despair. 

Carey rose abruptly. "It's all right, 
Julia !" were his first words. "And shut 
the door after you." Then he turned on 
his brother. "What in the name of good- 
ness is the meaning of this ?" 

By strong measures he had played 
father to the six boys left in his charge, 
for the authority of an elder brother is a 
thing that needs upholding; and as he 
looked down now on the weak, jaded fig- 
ure of Frank, the old methods presented 
themselves unconsciously. 

For the first moment Frank cowered ; 
then his outraged sense of manhood 
struggled to the surface. "I want fair 
treatment, Stephen," he said indistinctly. 
"That's what I want." 

"Oh !" Stephen was very laconic, very 
hard ; and, turning to Daisy, he added in 
the same brusque tone, "If you've fin- 
ished your breakfast, Daisy, you may as 
well go." 

With the utmost reluctance Daisy 
moved toward the door. She would 
have bartered many things for the privi- 
lege of overhearing this conversation, but 
here again habit was strong, and it did 
not occur to her to disobey. 

As she passed Frank, she held out her 
hand. "How are you, Frank?" she said 
in her pretty, mincing voice. She made 
this proffer of friendship partly from the 
senses of conventionality, but also from 
an overmastering desire to see his face 
at closer quarters. 

He muttered some unintelligible re- 
mark, and dropped her hand almost as 
soon as he had taken it. 

"Close the door after you!" Stephen 
said, remindingly; and without further 
hesitancy Daisy went. 

Left alone, the brothers faced each 
other, each conscious that antagonism 
lurked in the other's eyes. 

"Well," said Carey at last in a meas- 
ured way, "so you have taken the liberty 
of throwing up your studies to come 
back here and demand fair treatment? 
Now, would you mind telling me what 
you call fair treatment?" 

Frank visibly weakened at this deliber- 
ate attack. In a long absence one is apt 
to underestimate the strength of such 






men as Carey, and to face it again with 
disorder of one's forces. 

"I think I'm— I'm entitled to the rights 
of a man, Stephen." 

"Indeed ! The rights of a man ?" 

Frank braced his limp muscles. "I 
mean, Stephen/' he blurted out, "that 
I'm not a schoolboy — that I'm twenty- 
three — that I have as good a right to live 
as you — or — or — any other man." 

"Did I ever object to your existence?" 

"Oh, you know what I mean — that I 
have as good a right as anybody else to 
do what I like with my life, without 
being bullied and threatened and " 

"Sit down!" said Carey peremptorily. 
"This isn't a time for heroics. Tell me 
in the fewest possible words what the 
devil brought you back !" 

From the instinct of long obedience, 
rather than from any conscious admis- 
sion of weakness, Frank subsided into 
the nearest chair. 

Go on now ! What brought you ?" 

Your letter." 

Oh !" Again Carey was laconic. 

"Yes, your letter. I know that I'm a 
lot younger than you, Stephen, and I 
know that I owe vou a lot of money " 

"Steady! Steady!" 

"Oh, well, I know that you've done a 
heap for me. But, all the same, I 
couldn't let any man, even if 'twas my 
own father, dictate to me whether I am 
to marry — and who I am to select." 

Carey was silent. 

"And so when I got your letter and 
Isabel's letter, I knew that something 
was wrong, and I came back to see what 
it was." 

And have you found out?" 
Yes, I have. I went up to New Town 
the first thing. I saw her and her aunt." 


At the thought of his recent adventure, 
Frank's bravado flickered and went out. 
"Oh, what I might have expected, I sup- 
pose. She doesn't want any more of me." 

A fresh expression passed over Carey's 
face, banishing the aggressive lopk. "Ah, 
well," he said more kindly, "you mustn't 
be too cut up!" He walked round the 
table, and with a new generosity put his 
hand on the other's shoulder. "I sup- 
pose I was a bit rough in my letter, but 
then I always am like that. Cheer up! 



We'll be good friends yet, for all this 
business !" 

But Frank bent his head and edged 
away from the friendly hand. "It's no 
good, Stephen ! It's done for me." 

The pressure of Carey's hand became 
heavier, and he twisted the boy round in 
his seat. 

"What do you mean by that?" 

Frank kept his eyes lowered.* "I 
mean what I say. I'm done for! I'm 
not going to stick on, in the face of 
this !" 

Stephen's brow darkened and the line 
of his mouth became hard. "Look here, 
Frank," he said, "don't come to me 
with any of that rot. It won't work with 
me. While you're in this house you're 
going to behave as a rational being. I'll 
send you upstairs presently to have a hot 
bath and a shave. And to show how little 
I give for your threats, I'll lend you one 
of my razors !" 

The cool, sarcastic tone stung Frank 
out of his lethargy, as Carey had meant it 

"I think you're a brute!" he blurted 
out. "And she's as bad." 

Carey laughed. "Come, come! Be 
a man ! As for the girl, she's thinking of 
you more than of herself." 

Frank gave a bitter echo of the laugh. 
"Of me, indeed! That's all you know 
about it." 

"I know she's a sight too good for 
you! She's got more spirit and sense 
than ever you will have." 

"Spirit! Sense! If that was all, do 
you think I'd be like this ? Do you think 
I'd give in like this? It's being thrown 
away like an old glove — chucked for 
some other fellow — that takes the heart 
out of you !" 

In the pause that followed this, Carey 
turned away and walked slowly to the 
mantelpiece. "Another fellow?" he said. 
"What do you mean by that?" 

Frank was too absorbed to notice any- 
thing of the tone. "I mean what I say — 
no more and no less. If you think it's 
sense that has made her do this, you 
know very little about women." 

"That's quite probable." 

"The less, the better for you! Spirit 
and sense, indeed! Why, with her own 
lips she told me that she doesn't care a 




brass farthing for me — that's she throw- 
ing me over for somebody else." 

Carey leant his elbow on the mantel- 
piece. "And who is the somebody 

"You may be sure I didn't ask. What 
does it matter whether it's Willie Neville 
or Owen Power, or who the devil it is, 
so long as it isn't me ?" 

Carey turned round abruptly. "Do 
you think that a girl like that would 
throw herself away on an ass like 
Neville or an empty-headed coxcomb 
like Power?" 

"Why not? Power is a lady's man. 
Ask Daisy or Mary if he isn't !" 

"But it's ridiculous on the face of it I 
She hasn't seen anv of them half a dozen 
times !" 

Frank gave another of his dreary 
laughs. "A lot that has to do with it ! I 
only met her three times, when I was 
crazed about her." 

Carey stood pondering these words of 

"That's the way with women !" Frank 
broke out again. "You see, if she isn't 
engaged before a month is out! After 
all, Power is a better match than me, any 
day !" 

"That'll do, Frank ! That'll do! We've 

had enough of this." Stepping to the 
side of the fireplace, Carey pulled the 
bell peremptorily. 

The door opened with suspicious alac- 
rity, and Julia appeared. 

"Take Mr. Frank up to my room," he 
ordered. "Get him some hot water for 
shaving and then fill the bath !" 

For a moment Frank looked as though 
about to rebel, but a glance at Julia's in- 
quisitive face deterred him and he rose 

"I won't want any breakfast, Stephen," 
he said, "so you needn't order any." 

"All right !" Carey agreed unfeelingly. 
"We'll call you for lunch." 

As the door closed, he turned back 
again to the fireplace, and his expression 
was a curious mingling of irritation and 
some other emotion, less easily defined. 
With a wide, characteristic gesture he 
threw out his arms and, resting both el- 
bows on the mantel-board, stood staring 
down into the grate. For a while he re- 
mained in this attitude of thought ; then, 
with an abrupt movement, he threw up 
his head, as though impatience of the 
world had concentrated into impatience 
of himself. 

"Pshaw ! Women !" he said with deep 

(To be continued) 





John Lane Company: 

Stained Glass Tours in France. By Charles 
Hitchcock Sherrill. 

The author writes of his tour through 
the cathedral towns of France and gives 
many interesting descriptions and 
legends of these cathedral windows. The 
volume is illustrated with half-tones 
showing examples of thirteenth, four- 
teenth, fifteenth and sixteenth century 
stained glass in France and contains 
itineraries and maps of practical tours 

to the cathedrals and towns in which the 
best stained glass is to be found. 

L. C. Page and Company: 

Castles and Keeps of Scotland. By Frank 
Roy Fraprie. 

The author here relates some of the 
history and romance connected with the 
more important castles of Scotland, and 
tells of their architectural peculiarities. 
The introductory chapter is devoted to 
the "Development and Styles of the Cas- 
tles of Scotland." The volume contains 
many illustrations from original photo- 

British Highways and Byways from a Motor 
Car. Being a Record of a Five Thousand 



Mile Tour in England, Wales and Scot- 
land. By Thos. D. Murphy. 

A volume of travel covering the coun- 
try roads of England, Wales and Scot- 
land, with descriptions of the pic- 
turesque and interesting landmarks. 
The book contains information of a 
practical nature as well as historical 
comment. A distinct feature of the vol- 
ume is its illustrations, which consist of 
sixteen full-page pictures in colour, re- 
produced from original paintings by 
prominent artists, and thirty-two in 


The German Literary Board: 

The First Page of the Bible. By Fr. Bcttex. 
Translated from the Second German Edi- 
tion, with the Former Translation Com- 
pared and Revised by the Rev. F. C. 
Longaker, A.M. 

A comment upon the work of creation. 

Funk and W agnails Company: 

The Semi-Insane and the Semi-Responsible 
(Demifous et Demiresponsables). By 
Joseph Grasset. Authorized American 
Edition. Translated by Smith Ely JellifTe, 
M.D, Ph.D. 

In outlining the chief purpose of this 
treatise Professor Grasset writes as fol- 
lows: "Society knows to-day that, if it 
has any rights in connection with crimi- 
nals, it has also duties toward the dis- 
eased. And, further, in the presence of 
a misdemeanor or a crime it ought to 
put the question, Should the accused be 
punished or should he be treated? The 
object of this book is to demonstrate 
that to this burning question the magis- 
trate, assisted by the physicians, may 
make three different replies according to 
the case in hand: (i) The accused 
criminal is entirely responsible; he has 
normal psychic neurons; therefore, he 
ought only to be punished and put in 
prison. (2) The accused criminal is en- 
tirely irresponsible; his psvehic neurons 
are wholly diseased ; therefore, he ought 
only to be treated and placed in a hos- 
pital. (3) The accused criminal has at- 
tenuated responsibility; his psychic 
neurons are not normal, but are partially 
diseased ; therefore, he ought to be both 
punished and treated. He should be 
placed successively in a prison and in a 

Harper and Brothers: 

Hypnotic Therapeutics in Theory and Prac- 
tice. With Numerous Illustrations of 
Treatment by Suggestion. By John Dun- 
can Quackenbos, A.M., M.D. 

An exposition of hypnotism as the 
great regenerative force of the are, 
based on scientific facts ; and written for 

the general reader. It is the result of 
over seven thousand personal experi- 
ences of the author with hypnotic treat- 
ment of the physically and morally 

The Hetniup Publishing Company: 

Our World : The Earth a Revolving Engine 
with a Central Propelling Power. By 
Maria Remington Hemiup. 

From a long life of study and research 
in scientific thought as well as in every- 
day affairs concerning the general good 
of humanity, the author sums up in this 
volume her original observations and 
discoveries. The work is dedicated: To 
the World's Humanity. 

B. W. Huebsch: 

The Use of the Margin. By Edward How- 
ard Griggs. 

In the Art of Life Series. The mar- 
gin here referred to is the margin of 
life, or the spare time each individual 
has to spend as he pleases. The author's 
theme is the problem of utilising this 
spare time with a definite object in view 
— that of attaining the highest culture 
of mind and spirit. In discussing the 
problem he deals with work and play, 
study and reading, and the ethical as- 
pects of daily living. 

Where Knowledge Fails. By Earl Barnes. 

In the Art of Life Series. The author 
here discusses the relation and inter- 
dependence of knowledge and faith. He 
points out the limitations of each and 
clears the way for believers to accept the 
progress of science and for scholars to 
embrace a satisfactory faith. 

John Lane Company: 

The Re-Birth of Religion. Being an account 
of the passing of the old and coming of 
the new dogmatic. By Algernon Sidney 

The author sets forth the causes of 
the present religious unrest in Europe 
and America. His purpose is to make 
clear why it is that the intellectual world 
has rejected and must continue to reject 
the dogmatic teaching of the churches. 
He also explains why moral earnestness 
and enthusiasm for humanity seek ex- 
pression outside rather than inside the 
various ecclesiastical organisations. 

Luce and Company: 

The Philosophy of Friedrich Nietzsche. By 
Henry L. Mencken. 

The author has made three divisions 
of his work, namely, "Nietzsche the 
Man," "Nietzsche the Philosopher" and 
"Nietzsche the Prophet" His purpose 
is to "translate Nietzsche into terms 
familiar to every one — to show the exact 
bearing of his philosophy upon matters 
which every man must consider every 



The Macmillan Company: 

Christianity and the Social Order. By R. J. 
Campbell, MA. 

In a series of sermons the Rev. R. J. 
Campbell presents the social bearings of 
the New Theology. He has enlisted his 
sympathy with the socialists and has 
taken his stand with the leaders of the 
labour movement in England. In regard 
to the way in which he became identified 
with the socialist movement the author 
writes as follows: "The first and most 
obvious influence in this direction was 
the study of Christian origins, which led 
me gradually but irresistibly to see that 
the first Christian preachers did not 
know of any other gospel than that of 
a universal brotherhood on earth. I 
have never been anything else than a 
liberal in theology — all assertions to the 
contrary notwithstanding — but my way 
of presenting the truth in the earlier 
years pi my ministry was necessarily less 
clear and coherent than at present, for 
it rested too much on the other-worldism 
of conventional Christian preaching. The 
realisation that this other-worldism was 
totally absent from the primitive Chris- 
tian thought forced me, like so many 
others, upon what was practically the 
socialist position without any first-hand 
acquaintance with the socialist move- 
ment itself. I now regard socialism as 
the practical expression of Christian 
ethics and the evangel of Jesus." 

From the Columbia University Press. 

The Distribution of Ownership. By Joseph 
Harding Underwood, Ph.D. 

The Inheritance Tax. By Max West, 

The Legislature of the Province of Vir- 
ginia. Its Internal Development. By 
Elmer I. Miller, Ph.D. 

Studies in History, Economics and 
Public Law. Edited by the Faculty of 
Political Science of Columbia Uni- 

Confessio Medici. By the Writer of "The 
Young People." 

Primarily for the lover of literature, 
though addressed to the medical man. It 
is the quiet, reflective talk of a physician 
who has lived much and observed much, 
and who is, first of all, a man. 

The Inward Light By H. Fielding Hall. 

An attempt to determine the "great 
and vital principle of truth that underlies 
the Eastern Faith called Buddhism." 
Mr. Hall's interpretation of this faith 
is that it is a religion based upon a con- 
ception of the soul and of the world 
that rings as true, a conception which 
is deduced from facts and is not a 

Essays in Municipal Administration. By 
John A. Fairlie, Ph.D. 

A series of papers and articles on spe- 
cial topics that have been prepared under 
varying circumstances and for different 
purposes. Most of them have already 
appeared in various magazines and jour- 
nals. The author describes this series as 
arranged in three groups. In the first 
are those relating to problems of or- 
ganisation and the relation of cities to 
the State. In the second group are those 
dealing with municipal government in 
Europe; and this is followed by an im- 
portant independent essay called "In- 
struction in Municipal Government." 

Primitive Secret Societies. A study in 
Early Politics and Religion. By Hutton 
Webster, Ph.D. 

As Professor Webster states in his 
preface to this work, recent years have 
added much to the knowledge of the in- 
itiation ceremonies and secret societies 
found among many savage and barbarous 
communities throughout the world, and 
that the data bearing upon these matters, 
collected by the patient efforts of schol- 
arly investigators in Australia, Melanesia, 
Africa and North America, are of singu- 
lar interest to the student of primitive 
sociology and religion. The present 
work, the author states, represents an 
effort, necessarily provisional in the 
light of existing information, to arrive 
at the significance of the materials so 
laboriously and so carefully collected. 
The central proposition maintained in 
this work is that initiation rights and 
secret societies constituted the earliest 
system of social control among primitive 

A. C. McClurg and Company: 

Optimism. A Real Remedy. By Horace 
Fletcher. With a Foreword by William 
Dana Orcutt 

Mr. Fletcher's original investigations 
in the science of absorbing food into the 
human system have gained for him the 
interest and support of men of science 
and his present volume bespeaks the at- 
tention of those who are well that they 
may keep well, of those not in robust 
health, that they may attain it, and justi- 
fies its title completely, proving that the 
world is a better place to live in than 
even the most sanguine had imagined. 

The Neale Publishing Company: 

The Political Opinions of Thomas Jeffer- 
son. An Essay by John Walter Wayland, 
B.A., Ph.D. 

As the author remarks in his prefa- 
tory note, no claim is made to a com- 
plete enumeration of Jefferson's political 
principles and opinions. His object has 
been merely to give a comprehensive 
outline. Jefferson's views on many 
questions are quoted directly and others 



are given indirectly. The subject is 
treated under the following headings: 
I. Concerning Government: II. Concern- 
ing the American States; III. Concern- 
ing the United States Government; 

IV. Concerning the United States in 
Relation to Foreign Powers; and 

V. Concerning Various Questions of 
Importance. Under the fifth head the 
author takes up Jefferson's position on 
African slavery, the American Indians, 
the liquor traffic, money and banks, and 
expansion of territory. 

Olcott Publishing Company: 
The Man of Galilee. A New Enquiry. By 
George R. Wendling. 

A revision and enlargement of a lec- 
ture given by the author on this subject. 
In it he outlines a new enquiry into the 
alleged divinity of the Galilean based on 
a new analysis of His intellectual quali- 
ties. In the introductory lines Mr. 
Wendling writes : "This enquiry touches 
some undeveloped chapters of His life, 
lays more than usual stress on internal 
evidence, seeks to place the controversy 
as to His supernatural origin on a 
broader basis, and is a study in psychol- 
ogy and in comparative religion." 

G. P. Putnam's Sons: 
The Solar System. A Study of Recent Ob- 
servations. By Charles Lane Poor. 

The author's aim is to present the sub- 
ject in untcchnical language, and, with- 
out the use of mathematics, to show by 
what steps the precise knowledge of to- 
day has been reached, and to explain the 
marvellous results of modern methods 
and modern observations. The attempt 
is made to show what the bodies of the 
solar system really are, not how they 
move: to show the conditions existing 
on the various planets, the character of 
their surfaces, their resemblances to, and 
their differences from, the earth. Among 
the special features of the book is the 
great number of illustrations, showing 
in detail the phenomena discussed in the 

The Prolongation of Life. Optimistic 
Studies. By Elie Metchnikoff. The Eng- 
lish Translation Edited by P. Chalmers 

A sequel to the author's work, The 
Nature of Man, published about four 
years ago. In this new volume the 
author treats at greater length,, in the 
light of additional knowledge gained in 
the last few years, his main thesis that 
human life is not only unnaturally short, 
but unnaturally burdened with physical 
and mental disabilities. He analyses the 
causes of these disharmonies and ex- 
plains his reasons for hoping that they 
may be counteracted by a rational 
hygiene. He also discusses the social 
and moral aspects of his proposals. 

Christian Science. The Faith and Its 
Founder. By Lyman P. Powell. 

A scientific investigation of the claims 
of Christian Science, the career of its 
founder, its philosophy and theology, its 
bearing upon physical healing and upon 
marriage and the family. The author 
states that his purpose in writing this 
book has been to present a work in 
which the average man who is outside of 
Christian Science can find the things he 
wants to know about its theory and 

Charles Scribner's Sons: 

The American Constitution. The Rational 
Powers, The Rights of the States, The 
Liberties of the People. By Frederic 
Jesup Stimson. 

The volume consists of eight lectures 
which were delivered by the author last 
fall at the Lowell Institute in Boston. 
The titles of the various lectures are as 
follows: "The Meaning of the Consti- 
tution," "Constitutional Rights Peculiar 
to English and American Freemen," 
"Development of These Rights— ^Their 
Infringement by Kings and Their Re- 
establishment by the People," "The Ex- 
pression of Those Liberties in Our Fed- 
eral Constitution," "Division of Powers 
Between Legislative, Executive and 
Judicial, and Between the Federal Gov- 
ment and the States," "Changes in the 
Constitution Now Proposed" and "In- 
terstate Commerce, the Control of 
Trusts, and the Regulation of Cor- 

Reeve A. Silk: 

Nephilim. By William J. H. Bohannan. 

This book, the introductory chapter of 
which is entitled "The Basis of Science," 
is written "to point out the principle 
which, in operation, gives rise to all 
physical phenomena and to show the ab- 
solute truth of statement of the Bible 
concerning the creation and order of the 
universe and the destiny of the solar 


Buffalo Historical Society: 

Millard Fillmore Papers. Two Volumes. 
Edited by Frank H. Severance. 

The volumes contain speeches, de- 
bates, official and private correspondence, 
and miscellaneous writings of Millard 
Fillmore. The editor's especial design 
has been to give Mr. Fillmore's words 
on important issues where they have 
been preserved; and to make ap- 
parent his part in legislation, and his 
motives of conduct. Volume I. contains 
Millard Fillmore's autobiography of his 
earlier years. 

Harper and Brothers: 
Memoirs of a Russian Governor. Prince 



Serge Dmitriyevich Urussov. Trans- 
lated from the Russian and Edited by Her- 
man Rosenthal. 

A prince of one of the oldest families 
of Russia, a member of the first Duma, 
and an enthusiastic patriot, has added 
another volume to Russian history. He 
tells of the intricate machinery of the 
autocracy, the schemes of the police de- 
partment and the intrigues and corrup- 
tion that underlie the fabric of govern- 
ment Prince Urussov's aim in "expos- 
ing these truths is to arouse earnest, 
right-thinking men to sweep away these 
foul abuses and to co-operate in the sane 
upbuilding of the New Russia." 

The Macmillan Company: 

Rambling Recollections. By the Right Hon- 
ourable Sir Henry Drummond Wolff, 
G.C.B., G.C.M.G. Two Volumes. 

These volumes contain much informa- 
tion regarding characters and scenes of 
European history during the past half 
century. The author writes of his boy- 
hood, youth and manhood, and of his 
political and social life. As attache, 
minister, or ambassador, Sir Henry 
Drummond Wolff represented Great 
Britain at almost every European court, 
and in later life became especially prom- 
inent in negotiations with Russia. Aus- 
tria, Turkey and Persia and in relation 
to the questions arising in Egypt and 
the Balkan States ; and here pictures the 
men. motives and circumstances of this 
troublous era. He tells stories of his 
experiences in the House of Commons, 
his association with Disraeli, Thackeray, 
and many others. 

My Memoirs. By Alexandre Dumas. Trans- 
lated by E. M. Waller. With an Introduc- 
tion by Andrew Lang. Volume III. 

This volume carries the autobiography 
on to 1830, and contains a number of en- 
tertaining notes in regard to Victor 
Hugo and other literary and public men 
of the period, especially those concerned 
with the French Drama. The Memoirs 
will be complete in six volumes. 

James Thomson. By G. C. Macaulay. 

The latest volume in the English Men 
of Letters Series. The author's object 
is to present the subject as a chapter of 
the history of English Literature, and to 
bring out the part played by Thomson in 
the development of the poetry of the 
eighteenth century. 

G. P. Putnam's Sons: 

A Princess of Intrigue; Anne Genevieve 
de Bourbon, Duchesse de Longueville, 
and her Times. By H. Noel Williams. 

The life of the beautiful and accom- 
plished Anne Genevieve de Bourbon, 
Duchesse de Longueville, daughter of 
Henri de Bourbon, Prince de Condi, 

and sister of the great Condi It deals 
with Madame de Longueville's early 
years, her responsibility for the fatal 
duel between Maurice de Coligny and 
the Due de Guise, her visit to the 
Congress of Munster, her passionate at- 
tachment to La Rochefoucauld, to 
further whose interests she engaged in 
the intrigue against Mazarin and the 
Court, her adventurous career during 
the Wars of the Fronde, her conversion, 
and her protection of the Jansenists and 
Port Royal. 

Charles Scribner's Sons: 

Mirabeau. The Demi-God. Being the True 
and Romantic Story of his Life and Ad- 
ventures. By W. R. H. Trowbridge. 

In a dedicatory letter the author 
writes: "There are few historical char- 
acters of whom so much is known as 
Mirabeau, none of whom it is so impos- 
sible to describe accurately or to con- 
sider dispassionately. Even his most 
'scientific* biographer has been unable to 
conceal a prejudice that closely resem- 
bles personal spite. For the fact is Mira- 
beau was an exaggeration, and in writ- 
ing of him one unconsciously falls into 
an exaggeration of panegyric or invec- 
tive. There seems to be no middle 
course between loving and hating him. 
I frankly admit that I have preferred to 
see in him only his nobler and what I 
believe to be his fundamental qualities, 
and it has been my object to convey my 
sympathetic impression that he sinned 
far less than he was sinned against." 

Henrik Ibsen. By Edmund Gosse. 

In the series of "Literary Lives." An 
account and criticism of the poet and 
dramatist. Among others there are 
chapters devoted to his "Childhood and 
Youth," "Early Influences," "Personal 
Characteristics" and "Intellectual Char- 
acteristics." The author expresses in 
the preface the wish that his book might 
be read in connection with the edition 
of Ibsen's Complete Dramatic Works, 
which Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons 
have recently issued in eleven volumes. 

George Sand and Her Lovers. By Francis 


This story of George Sand's extraordi- 
nary career, of her adventures and ex- 
periments in sentiment, is based chiefly 
on her own letters and those of her 
friends and lovers, including a number 
of Chopin's which have not hitherto 
been published. There are also many 
glimpses of the famous men and women 
of the time. 

The University of Chicago Press: 

Heralds of American Literature. A Group 
of Patriot Writers of the Revolutionanr 
and National Periods. By Annie Russell 
Marble, M.A. 



The author's aim is to furnish a de- 
tailed study of the lives and services of 
a group of typical writers during the 
early years of national growth. Among 
the authors considered are Francis Hop- 
kinson, Philip Freneau, John Trumbull, 
Joseph Dennie, William Dunlap, and 
Charles Brockden Brown. 


Thofnas Y. Crowell and Company: 

The Tragedie of Othello, the Moore of 

The Tempest. 

The Winter's Tale. 

The First Folio Shakespeare. Edited, 
with Notes, Introduction, Glossary, List 
of Variorum Readings, and Selected 
Criticism, by Charlotte Porter and 
Helen A. Clarke. 

DufHeld and Company: 

The Taming of the Shrew. 

Edited by W. G. 

The Old-Spelling Shakespeare: Be- 
ing the Works of Shakespeare on the 
Spelling of the best Quarto and Folio 
Texts. Edited by F. J. Furnivall and 
the late W. C. Boswell-Stone. 

The Old-Spelling Shakespeare is the 
first section of the Shakespeare Library 
of which Professor I. Gollanz, LittD., is 
the general editor. This section will, 
when complete, consist of forty volumes, 
each accompanied by a short preface and 
brief textual notes and collations. 

Scheme and Estimates for a National 
Theatre. By William Archer and Gran- 
ville Barker. 

A detailed scheme, with estimates for 
the creation, organisation and manage- 
ment of a National Theatre in England. 
This theatre the authors conceive to be 
a "free gift to the nation, represented 
by a Board of Trustees." They assume 
that the theatre-building with an initial 
stock of scenery, costumes, furniture, 
and other requisites, is placed, free of 
all rent, taxes, and insurance premium, 
at the disposal of the management, and 
their object is to ascertain what will be 
the probable yearly cost, under these 
conditions, of presenting a worthy 
repertory in a worthy fashion. 

Love's Labors Lost. Edited by F. J. Furni- 
vall, M.A., Ph.D., D.Litt. 

In the series of "The Old Spelling 
Shakespeare" — the works of Shakespeare 
in the spelling of the best quarto and 
folio texts, edited by F. J. Furnivall and 
the late W. G. Boswell-Stone. This 
series forms a section of the Shake- 
speare Library. 

Henry Holt and Company: 

The Genesis of Hamlet. By Charlton M. 

An essay which presents the chief new 
results of a prolonged study of Hamlet 
with a succession of college classes. It 
is an attempt to solve the Hamlet prob- 
lem by discriminating between Shake- 
ispeare's original contributions to the 
study and the legendary materials that 
he inherited. The matter is treated un- 
der the* following headings: "The 
Theory of Coleridge," "Werder's The- 
ory," "The First Quarto," "Kyd and 
Belleforest," "The German Hamlet," 
"Kyd's Hamlet," "Shakespeare's Ham- 
let," and "Ophelia." 

Maunsel and Company: 

The Playboy of the Western World. By 
J. M. Synge. 

A comedy in three acts depicting the 
peasant life in Ireland. 

Moffatt, Yard and Company: 

The Art of William Blake. By Elizabeth 
Luther Cary. 

A volume discussing the art of Wil- 
liam Blake in several phases and dwell- 
ing upon his Manuscript Sketch Book, 
to which the author had free access and 
from which the publishers have drawn 
for illustrations. 

Oxford University Press: 

A History of Music in England. By Ernest 

The author writes that his purpose in 
this book is to sketch the main features 
of English music from its earliest artis- 
tic manifestations to the close of the 
nineteenth century. The chapter on folk- 
music contains references to the melo- 
dies of Scotland, Ireland, and Wales, as 
well as to those of England itself. 

G. P. Putnam's Sons: 

Renaissance Masters. The Art of Raphael, 
Michelangelo, Leonardo Da Vinci, Titian, 
Corrcggio, Botticelli and Rubens. By 
George B. Rose. 

A new edition to which has been 
added a study of the art of Claude Lor- 
raine. The author's design here has been 
to give briefly the essential characteris- 
tics of each of the masters treated, so 
that the traveller may be able to enjoy 
them for what they are, without looking 
for merits in one which can be found 
only in another. 


American Book Company: 

Spanish Prose Composition. By G. W. 
Umphrey, Ph.D. 

Interesting material systematically ar- 



ranged for translation, composition and 
conversation in Spanish. It is intended 
for students who already know some- 
thing about the essential principles of 
the Spanish language. 

The Short-Story. Specimens Illustrating Its 
Development. Edited with Introduction 
and Notes by Brander Matthews, LL.D. 

For this volume twenty-four specimen 
stories have been selected, from the 
chief modern literatures — English, 
French, German, Russian and Nor- 
wegian — to show the development of the 
form or the slow evolution of this lit- 
erary species through the long centuries 
of advancing civilisation. 

Text-Book in General Physiology and 
Anatomy. By Walter Hollis Eddy. 

The publishers state that this text- 
book is suited for use in the most mod- 
ern schools and by the most progressive 
teachers. Physiology is treated as a 
study of function in living forms, and 
as a part of the training in biologic sci- 
ence, and not as an isolated subject. 

Elementary Algebra. By Frederick H. 
Somerville, B.S. 

This book is planned to meet every 
real need in teaching elementary algebra 
in secondary schools, including the pres- 
ent requirements of the College Entrance 
Examination Board. Among its im- 
portant features are: The statement of 
problems by a consistent use of the idea 
of "translation"; the natural order and 
grouping of the type-forms in factoring ; 
the logical plan of the introduction to 
fractions; the economic arrangement of 
simultaneous equations ; the introduction 
and the classification of the new forms 
in the theory of exponents: the con- 
sistent and teachable presentation of 
quadratic equations; the clear introduc- 
tion to and the practical treatment of 

Simplicity. A Reader of French Pronuncia- 
tion. By Julius Tuckerman. 

In this book an attempt is made to as- 
sist the teacher in solving the difficulty 
of teaching French pronunciation in as 
brief a time as possible. For this pur- 
pose carefully graded exercises have 
been arranged, each exercise dealing 
with only one difficulty at a time. Model 
sentences of simple construction have 
been grouped around each sound so as 
to produce by repetition a maximum of 
practice in a minimum of space. 

Laboratory Lessons in Physical Geography. 
By Lu Lester Everly, M.A. 

The ninety lessons contained in this 
volume constitute a year's course, cover- 
ing such physical geography topics as can 
be taken up to advantage in the labora- 
tory. Drainage, land, and coast forms 
are made clear by the aid of sand model- 

ling, the study of well-selected topo- 
graphical maps, and the making of pro- 
files from these maps and other data. 
Simple lessons are outlined for the ex- 
amination of mineral specimens and for 
experiments with light, heat, magnetism, 
the gases in the atmosphere, air pressure 
and the barometer, evaporation, humid- 
ity, etc. 

Another Fairy Reader. By James Baldwin. 

This latest addition to the popular 
series of Eclectic Readings is designed 
for use in middle and lower primary 
classes. The tales are from various 
sources, and represent the fairy lore of 
various peoples and countries. They are 
intended to teach the children lessons of 
kindness, cheerfulness, helpfulness and 

A Laboratory Manual of Zoology. By 
Margaretta Burnet. 

A simple, yet comprehensive, course 
in laboratory work, suitable for sec- 
ondary schools. The experiments take 
up the study of thirty-two typical speci- 
mens, easily obtainable in any locality, 
including all those recommended by the 
College Entrance Examination Board, 
besides numerous others presenting ex- 
cellent optional work. 

An Introductory Course in Exposition. 
By Frances M. Perry. 

The author's object in preparing this 
text-book has been to provide a sys- 
tematised course in the theory and prac- 
tice of expository writing, from which 
the student will acquire a clear under- 
standing of exposition — its nature; its 
two processes, definition and analysis; 
its three functions, impersonal presenta- 
tion or transcript, interpretation, and 
interpretive presentation ; and the spe- 
cial application of exposition in literary 

The Herrick Book and Stationery Company: 

Discoveries in Hebrew, Gaelic, Gothic, 
Anglo-Saxon, Latin, Basque, and Other 
Caucasic Languages. By Allison Emery 
Drake, Sc.M., M.D., Ph.D. 

Showing fundamental kinship of the 
Aryan tongues and of Basque and the 
Semitic tongues. 

Henry Holt and Company: 

Schilling's Don Basilio. A Practical Guide 
to Spanish Conversation and Correspond- 
ence. Translated and Edited by Frederick 

Written as a companion reading-book 
to the author's Spanish Grammar and 
intended to meet the wants of all ex- 
pecting to visit Spanish-speaking coun- 
tries, or to correspond with Spanish 
business houses. It is written in dia- 
logue form and in a colloquial style. 



Die beiden Freunde. Eine Erzahlung von 
General-Feldmarschall Graf Helmuth von 
Moltke. With Introduction, Notes and 
Vocabulary by Karl Dctlev Jessen, Ph.D. 

A story presented to students of Ger- 
man for the first time in an American 
school-edition. The introduction gives 
a sketch of the author's life. 

Spanish Correspondence. By E. S. Harrison. 

The author's purpose is to enable stu- 
dents, by means of this little volume, to 
write an intelligible letter in Spanish. 

Das Fraulein von Senderi. By E. T. A. Hoff- 
mann. With introduction and notes by 
Gustav Gruener. 

For the use of the student of German 
literature. The introduction gives a 
sketch of Hoffmann's life and career. 

The Macmillan Company: 

Livy. Book I., and Selections from Books 
II.-X. Latin Classics. Edited by James 
C. Egbert, Ph.D. 

An edition prepared to meet the needs 
of students. The editor, who is a pro- 
fessor of Latin at the University of 
Michigan, has made such selections from 
the first Decade and has placed in the 
introduction such information as the 
members of his own classes at least have 
seemed to find interesting. For a more 
extensive reading of the history of 
Rome, parallel references to the modern 
handbooks are to be found at the be- 
ginning of the notes on each section of 
the text. 

The Psychology and Pedagogy of Read- 
ing. With a Review of the History of 
Reading and Writing and of Methods, 
Texts and Hygiene in Reading. By Ed- 
mund Burke Huey, A.M., Ph.D. 

Besides a full discussion of all the 
difficult technical problems which are 
met by advanced students of this phase 
of education and pschology, Professor 
Huey gives much practical and sugges- 
tive advice which will be found helpful 
to elementary school-teachers. 

Three Tragedies of Seneca. Hercules 
Furens, Troades, Medea. With an Intro- 
duction and Notes by Hugh M. Kingery, 

In the series of Latin Classics. The 
volume contains a short introduction 
and standard commentary for the in- 
terpretation of the text 

A. E. McFadden: 

A Selected List of Plays for Amateurs and 
Students of Dramatic Expression in 
Schools and Colleges. Compiled by Eliza- 
beth A. McFadden and Lilian E. Davis. 
With Introduction by Ludella L. Peck, 
Professor of Elocution, Smith College. 

The list of plays offered in this vol- 

ume is intended to be a "first aid" to the 
amateur actor and dramatic student 
There is a general list of plays given, 
and also plays for children, Christmas 
plays, bibliographies of Christmas litera- 
ture, outdoor plays, outdoor plays for 
children, and old English plays. 

Charles E. Merrill Company: 

A Tale of Two Cities. By Charles Dickens. 
Edited with an Introduction and Notes 
by Julian W. Abernethy, Ph.D., Princi- 
pal of the Berkeley Institute, Brooklyn, 
N. Y. 

The fifth volume of Merrill's English 
Texts. This series will include master- 
pieces of English literature that are 
best adapted for the use of schools and 
colleges. In the introduction to this 
volume the editor gives a sketch of 
Dickens's life and works, followed by a 
series of critical estimates of the au- 
thor's genius and of this particular work. 

Benjamin H. Sanborn and Company: 

A New Method for Caesar. By Franklin 
Hazen Potter, A.M. 

In the Student's Series of Latin Clas- 
sics. The preface states that the book 
has grown out of the experimental work 
in Latin pedagogy which the author has 
carried on for several years at the State 
University of Ohio with the co-operation 
of the Iowa City public schools. It is 
offered as a solution of the difficulty in 
passing from the beginner's book to 
Caesar. The method followed is to give 
the particular preparation for a given 
chapter before the pupil attempts to read 
it, thus making it possible for the pupil 
to begin his reading of Caesar immedi- 
ately after finishing the elementary book. 


The Appeal to Reason: 

The Scarlet Shadow. A Story of the Great 
Colorado Conspiracy. By Walter Hurt. 

A tale based on the celebrated Hay- 
wood case, the exciting plot for which 
has been drawn from the bold and 
clever work by newspaper correspon- 
dents in solving the mystery of the 
Steunenberg murder. 

D. Appleton and Company: 

The Vanishing Fleets. By Roy Norton. 

While the President and War Depart- 
ment plan to protect the country in a 
war with Japan, "Old Bill" Roberts, an 
inventor, startles them by announcing a 
discovery he has made which if per- 
fected will give the United States abso- 
lute control of the seas. Secret prepara- 
tions are begun, the government remain- 
ing apparentlv inactive and indifferent to 
its danger. The country is amazed and 
puzzled when the Philippines are sur- 
rendered without a struggle and the 




government is severely criticised. Mean- 
while secret work goes on, further dis- 
coveries are 1 ^ade, and the creature 
finally perfected is a monster which 
travels through the air at an almost un- 
heard of rate of speed. The first attack 
of the Radioplanes is upon the Japanese 
fleet on its way to the Hawaiian Islands. 
They descend upon the ships and lift- 
ing them from the water carry them 
aloft into mid-air to be deposited, with- 
out destruction or loss of life, in a se- 
cluded bay away from the eyes of the 
public. Nations are aroused at the mys- 
terious disappearance of the fleet. An 
English fleet enters American waters 
and is carried off in the same way. One 
night a Radioplane makes a trip to 
Berlin and persuades the Kaiser to in- 
vestigate the machine for himself. The 
King of England disappears on the same 
mission. Convinced of the absolute 
power of the United States, and after 
the President explains that his object is 
to use this power as a means of peace 
and nrt wai, an international peace is 
established and many things which have 
puzzled the nations are made plain. 

The Artemisia Bindery: 

The Loom of the Desert. By Idah Meacham 

A collection of short stories dealing 
with the life of the people of the plains. 
In the foreword the author writes: 
"There, in that land set apart for 
Silence and Space and the Great Winds, 
Fate — a grim, still figure — sat at her 
loom weaving the destinies of desert 
men n id women. The shuttles shot to 
and fro without ceasing, and into the 
strange web were woven the threads of 
Light, and Joy, and Love; but more 
often were they those of Sorrow, or 
Death, or Sin. From the wide Grey 
Waste the Weaver had drawn the colour 
and design; and so the fabric's warp 
and woof were of the desert's tone. 
Keeping this always well in mind will 
help you the better to understand those 
people of the plains, whose lives must 
needs be often sombre-hued." 

Richard G. Badger: 

The Veil. A Fantasy. By Mary Harriott 

A story of haunted houses and ghosts. 
On one estate stand three houses be- 
lieved to be haunted. After being va- 
cant for a long period all three are 
leased at the same time and by people 
whose lives become peculiarly associated. 

The Evolution of Rose. By Ellen Snow. 

The musings of a young girl on life 
and love set down in the form of a 
diary. She records her homecoming on 
the completion of her education; her 

"coming out" reception, when she be- 
comes a "full-fledged society bud"; her 
connection with the people she meets in 
society; her various love affairs, among 
which she numbers two broken engage- 
ments ; her literary aspirations, of which 
she gives the result in "The Maxims of 
an Innocent" (dedicated to the woman 
who loves love more than loving, and 
lovers more than love), and "The Con- 
verted Philosopher"; and finally of her 
falling in love with the young curate of 
the Episcopal Church, to whom she had 
been attracted from the first, but with 
whom she was fond of arguing, their 
ideas of religion and their attitude 
toward mankind being widely different; 
he claiming that the Episcopal Church 
could be traced back to Christ, she 
wanting a church that "took in the 
whole world and went straight back to 
God." Finally winning her love, he con- 
fessed that she had changed him and 
that through her he had come to know 
that "Divine Love must mean universal 

The Bobbs-Merrill Company: 

The Black Bag. By Louis Joseph Vance. 

The hero, a young art student travel- 
ling in Europe, suddenly finds himself 
ruined after the earthquake in San Fran- 
cisco. He is about to leave London 
when he meets Dorothy Calendar, whom 
he is requested to escort to her home. 
They arrive at a deserted house, sur- 
rounded by mystery, to which the girl 
goes in order to gain possession of a 
"black bag" containing valuable jewels. 
Kirkwood, having fallen in love with 
Dorothy at first sight and realising her 
danger at the hands of a designing ras- 
cal who claims to be her father, takes 
up her cause. One adventure follows 
closely upon another and the young man 
has a lively time. He finally gets pos- 
session of the bag, finds the girl and per- 
suades her to start for London. There 
the mystery is solved, the pursuers 
fooled and captured and Dorothy Calen- 
dar and Philip Kirkwood happily dis- 
posed of after their exciting adventures. 

The Book Supply Company: 

The Shepherd of the Hills. By Harold Bell 

The "Shepherd" is an elderly man, 
who suddenly makes his appearance 
among the simple folk dwelling in the 
Ozark hills, of southern Missouri. 
While they do not know his true posi- 
tion he greatly endear*? himself to them. 
He is in reality a very brilliant scholar 
— a minister of the gospel — who. fleeing 
from a life of sorrow and sadness, finds 
a new existence in his association with 
the people of the hills and in his work 
for their good. 



Edward J. Clode: 

The Red Y«ar. By Louis Tracy. 

An historical romance, the scenes of 
which are laid in India at the time of the 
mutiny in 1857, when the Sepoys rebelled 
against the East India Company and the 
British rule. The principal characters 
are a young Englishman, an English girl 
and a native princess. The story is told 
of the Mutiny, of the siege at Cawnpore, 
at Lucknow, and of the taking of Delhi. 

Robert Gricr Cooke, Inc.: 

In the First Degree. By Margaret Holmes 

The story of a young man who, in- 
fluenced by his wife's wishes, seeks the 
nomination for prosecuting attorney de- 
spite the protests of his mother, who is 
bitterly opposed to capital punishment 
Shortly after his election to the office he 
is called upon to pass sentence in a mur- 
der trial in which the defendant proves 
to be a friend of his youth. An account 
is given of the trial, in which the evi- 
dence is purely circumstantial, and the 
sorrow and sympathy of friends is por- 
trayed. There seems no hope for the 
prisoner, who all through the long and 
tedious trial has borne herself with re- 
markable dignity, but at the last moment 
a confession is made and she is declared 
innocent and set free. 

B. IV. Dodge and Company: 

Scars on the Southern Seas. By George 

A story of adventure and romance. 
The plot centres about a conspiracy on 
the part of a Philippine junta to stir up 
the natives against the Americans of the 
islands, cause them to fight, and in the 
end establish a Republic. The hero, an 
American, is an explorer and a man of 
affairs and the heroine is an American 
girl. They, with several companions, 
who have been wrecked on an unclaimed 
island — the headquarters of the conspira- 
tors—discover the plot and save the 
Philippines for America. 

E. P. Dutton and Company: 

A Walking Gentleman. By James Prior. 
Reviewed elsewhere in this number. 

Paul Elder and Company: 

The Case of Summerfield. By W. H. 

This story appeared in a San Francisco 
paper in 1871 signed "Caxton." It tells 
of a man who claimed to possess a great 
secret — that by the use of potassium 
water could be set on fire and that in 
this way could be brought about the de- 
struction of the whole earth. This secret 
Summerfield wished to sell for one mil- 
lion dollars. A committee was organ- 

ised to consider the matter, and it was 
decided that a person in possession of 
such a secret was dangerous to human- 
ity. Later Summerfield met with a 
tragic death, being pushed from a rail- 
road train. His companion, a lawyer 
and a member of the committee in pos- 
session of Summerfield's deadly secret, 
was held for trial, but after some hours 
of consultation with the justice and his 
counsel the prisoner was discharged. 

R. F. Fenno and Company: 

The Yellow Face. By Fred M. White. 

All London is startled by the mys- 
terious appearance throughout the city 
of a hideous poster showing a man with 
a yellow face, dark hair and starting 
eyes. Underneath the face is written 
the one word "Nostalgo." No one knows 
what it means nor what it forebodes. A 
murder is committed and the face of 
the murdered man is found to resemble 
that of the poster. Determined de- 
tectives at once start to unravel the mys- 

Funk and Wagnalls: 

The Magnet. A Romance of the Battles of 
Modern Giants. By Alfred O. Crozier. 

A novel dealing with the financial and 
political conditions of the day. Some of 
the current topics treated in the volume, 
as given by the author, are as follows : 

Central Government Bank Plot. 
Elastic Currency — Private Schemes in 

Wall Street — An Exposure of Its 

Dangerous Methods and Powers; 

Panics — How Created — Effects. 
Banks — Runs by Depositors — The 

Railroads — Regulation ; Appraisal ; 

New Tax Plan: Trusts; Consolida-. 

tion: Capitalized Eminent Domain 

and Earning Power; Waterways. 
Corporations in Politics — New View 

of Tariff. 
"Lawyers for Sale" — to Plot Corpo- 
rate Crimes. 
Political Conspiracy — to Seize Control 

of the Government 

Mr. Crozier states that he has written 
this book with the hope that it may in- 
duce public thought and discussion, and 
thus do some good by helping to defeat 
the designs of such lawless incorporated 
wealth as is trying to seize control of 
the government of the republic in the 
campaign of 1008 for its selfish purposes, 
that it may reverse the wise and pa- 
triotic policies championed with so 
much courage by President Roosevelt. 

The Grafton Press: 

Gift Bearers. By Henry Berman. 

In the principal character of the story, 
Jessie Braeme, a strong-willed woman, 



the author has portrayed the spinster 
type as becoming a factor in American 

Henry Holt and Company: 

Somehow Good. By William de Morgan. 
Reviewed elsewhere in this number. 

B. W, Huebsch: 

A Princess and Another. By Stephen Jen- 

An historical romance depicting colo- 
nial life in New York and Westchester 
counties. The story opens in 1753. The 
author introduces real figures of history 
. and writes of the interest that the found- 
ers of well-known families of to-day 
had in the contraband trade. He also 
pictures the execution of Nathan Hale. 

Houghton, Mifflin and Company: 

The Luck of Roaring Camp and Other 
Tales. With Condensed Novels, Spanish 
and American Legends, and Earlier Pa- 
pers. By Bret Harte. 

A new edition with a general intro- 
duction by the author. 

/. B. Lippincott Company: 

The Lonely House. Translated from the 
German of Adolf Streckf uss by Mrs. A. L. 

The scene is laid in the Carpathian 
Mountains of Austria. There is a love 
story as well as a strange and mysterious 
murder connected with the "Lonely 
House." The murder is committed by 
the chief magistrate of the village, who, 
by his scheming and by virtue of his 
high position, succeeds in keeping sus- 
picion directed toward an innocent 
enemy who is in love with the daughter 
of the murdered man. An accident 
finally discloses his own guilt. 

The Smuggler. By Ella Middleton Tybout 

A story of the experiences of three 
American girls who spend a vacation in 
Canada, just over the line, and who un- 
knowingly entertain some smugglers 
engaged in getting jewels across the bor- 
der without the consent of Uncle Sam. 
Smuggling, robbery, murder, suspicion, 
mystery and love all have a part in the 
exciting story as it is told by one of the 
three girls. 

Little, Brown and Company: 

The Nether Millstone. By Fred M. White. 

A story of English life, the scene of 
which is laid in an old mansion known 
as Dashwood Hall. The heroine is a 
young girl whose life is saved several 
times by a man who is in love with her, 
but whom she believes to be socially and 
financially beneath her, and consequently 
refuses to entertain the idea of marry- 
! ing him. He is, however, wealthy and 

in every way eligible, but in order to 
win the haughty girl through his love 
for her keeps his true position a secret 

Luce and Company: 

The Politician. By Antonio Fogazzaro. 
Translation by G. Mantellini. 

The story of high-minded love of a 
• senator for the wife of one of his col- 

The Macmillan Company: 

The Crimes of Urbain Grandier and Others. 
By Alexandre Dumas. 

Another volume in the series of 
Dumas's "Celebrated Crimes." This 
deals with the crimes of Urbain Gran- 
dier, Derues, La Constantin, The Man 
in the Iron Mask, Murat and Karl-Lud- 
wig Sand. 

The Crimes of Ali Pacha and Others. 

The Crimes of the Marquise de Brinvilliers 
and Others. By Alexandre Dumas. 

The third and fourth volumes in a 
series of translations of Dumas's Cele- 
brated Crimes, with introductions by R. 
S. Garnett. These volumes complete the 

In God's Way. A Novel. By Bjornstjerne 
Bjornson. Translated from the Nor- 
wegian by Elizabeth Carmichael. Two 

The ninth and tenth volumes of the 
series of this Norwegian writer's works. 
Edited by Mr. Edmund Gosse. Vol- 
ume I. contains a brief introduction, tell- 
ing something of the author's life and 

Moffat, Yard and Company: 

The Stem of the Crimson Dahlia. By James 

A story of intrigue, romance and ad- 
venture. The hero, a young American, 
travelling in Constantinople, suddenly 
finds himself involved in a plot to over- 
throw the throne of the sovereign of 
the Balkan Kingdom. The young man 
has all sorts of exciting adventures and 

fets himself into no end of trouble. In 
ofia, Bulgaria, he meets an American 
girl who is also involved in the plot, 
and she thrusts into his keeping a bottle 
containing a red dahlia stem, the number 
of the leaves on it indicating the date 
on which the plot is to be carried out 

The Wife of Narcissus. By Annulet An- 

The life of a young girl, Sophia Van 
Cort, told by herself in the form of a 
journal. The scene of the story is in 
New York of to-day. She becomes as- 
sociated with a man who poses as a poet 
of passion and with whom she becomes 
infatuated. She tells of her meeting 
with this "Beautiful Being" whom she 
calls "Narcissus," of her marriage to 
him and of the Bohemian life they lead. 



Little Dinners with the Sphinx and Other 
Prose Fancies. By Richard Le Gallienne. 

The series which gives title to the 
book consists of four little dinners, at 
which the Sphinx and her companion en- 
tertain each other by their discussions 
on the following subjects: "On the 
Edge of the Starlight," "The Mysticism 
of Gastronomy," "On the Wearmg of 
Opals" and "New Loves for Old." 
These stories appeared serially in 
Ains lee's Magazine. The volume con- 
tains nine other sketches. 

The Neale Publishing Company: 

When Hearts were True. By Willoughby 

A collection of short stories the scenes 
of which are laid in Virginia. 

Stella Hope. By Emily Woodson Barksdale. 

A picture of home life in the South. 
Mrs. Houghton, her four daughters, the 
little cousin, Stella Hope, together with 
their guests, a young wealthy cousin 
from the West and his devoted friend 
Weston, make a merry group. Stella, a 
very lovable but much neglected girl of 
fifteen, is constantly suppressed by Mrs. 
Houghton, and when Weston shows any 
desire to pay her attention has to hurry 
off to "slice the cucumbers and toma- 
toes." Stella goes away to a convent to 
learn the things she has longed to learn, 
and becomes what she has longed to be- 
come — "a beautiful young lady." 

The Outing Publishing Company: 

At the Foot of the Rainbow. By Gene 
Stratton Porter. 

The story of the life-long friendship 
of Jimmie Malone and Dannie Macnoun, 
how they loved the same girl, whom 
Jimmie married by being deceitful to his 
best friend and to Mary herself, and 
how they continued to live on their 
adjoining farms in Rainbow Bottom 
and worked as partners — farming, trap- 
ping and fishing together. The author 
presents a picture of the beauties of na- 
ture as found in that section of Central 
Indiana, on the bank of the Wabash, 
where the scene of the, story is laid. 
Her description of the coon hunt led 
by Jimmie and her story of the Black 
Bas* and how Dannie finally landed it, 
to Jimmie's intense disappointment, are 
both amusing and pathetic and tend to 
show the vastly different character of 
the two men. Dannie goes on in his 
devotion to his friend, humouring and 
giving in to him at every turn, doing 
his own share of the work and often 
Jimmie's, too, after Jimmie contracted 
the habit of paying visits to "Casey's." 
The weight of the sin he had committed 
in lying to Mary and thus having sepa- 
rated the two that truly loved each other 
preyed on Jimmie's mind and at times 
Avas more than he could bear. On his 

death-bed he made confession of it to 
the priest. A year later found Dannie 
and Mary happily united, Dannie still 
holding sacred the memory of Jimmie as 
"the best mon that ever lived," neither 
the priest nor Mary daring to shake such 
a faith by revealing the deceit of his 

J. Archibald McKackney (Collector of 
Whiskers). Being Certain Episodes 
Taken from the Diary and Notes of that 
Estimable Gentleman- Student and now 
for the First Time set Forth. Edited by 
Ralph D. Paine. 

J. Archibald McKackney, an elderly 
man, having tired of the usual objects 
to which collectors devote their atten- 
tion, such as old porcelain, rare gems, 
antiques of all sorts, turned with en- 
thusiasm to the search for photographs, 
paintings and drawings of the many 
styles of beards, whiskers and mustachios 
that have ornamented the human face. 
He travelled all over the world in the 
hope of adding new trophies to his list, 
and in the pursuit of this unusual fad 
he had some curious adventures, many 
of which have been told in this volume. 

The Romance of an Old-time Shipmaster. 
By Ralph D. Paine. 

A collection of letters and journals 
written by an American sea captain at 
the beginning of the last century. 

L. C. Page and Company: 

Bahama Bill. By T. Jenkins Hains. 

A sea story, the scene of which is laid 
in the region of the Florida Keys. The 
hero, the giant mate of the wrecking 
sloop Sea-Horse, is brave and daring, 
and in carrying on his desperate trade 
has many stirring adventures. 

G. P. Putnam's Sons: 

Princess Nadine. By Christian Reid. 

The scenes are laid chiefly in Italy, 
and the story opens with an account of 
"The Battle of Flowers" in the Carnival 
of Nice, where the two principal char- 
acters meet; a Russian princess, 
daughter of a Russian prince and an 
American woman, and a rich young 
American who has made his fortune in 
South American revolutions. Seeing the 
princess smothered in flowers in her 
carnival carriage, the young man falls in 
love with her at once. Many complica- 
tions arise and it is Jack Leighton, the 
American, who comes to the rescue of 
the princess when she is at the mercy of 
the spies of the Russian Government, she 
having endeavoured to protect a young 
Russian, her nephew, who leaves some 
Nihilist papers with her. In the end 
notwithstanding her aspirations and 

Slans to ascend a throne the Princess 
Tadine renounces it all and marries Jack 




The following is a list of the six most 
popular new books in order of demand as 
sold between February ist and March 1st. 


1. Somehow Good. De Morgan. (Holt) 


2. Adam's Clay. Hamilton. (Brentano.) 


3. The Broken Road. Mason. (Scribner.) 


4. Sheaves. Benson. (Doubleday, Page.) 


5. Nicolette. Sharpe. (Brentano.) $1.50. 

6. Indiscreet Letters from Pekin. Weale. 

(Dodd, Mead.) $2.00. 


1. The Ancient Law. Glasgow. (Doubleday, 

Page.) $1.50. 

2. Exton Manor. Marshall. (Dodd, Mead.) 


3. The Black Bag. Vance. (Bobbs-Merrill.) 


4. Come and Find Me. Robins. (Century Co.) 


5. The Broken Road. Mason. (Scribner.) 


6. Somehow Good. De Morgan. (Holt.) 



1. The Ancient Law. Glasgow. (Doubleday, 

Page.) $1.50. 

2. The Shuttle. Burnett (Stokes.) $1.50. 

3. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 

4. Somehow Good. De Morgan. (Holt) 


5. The Best Man. MacGrath. (Bobbs-Mer- 

rill.) $1.50. 

6. Rosalind at Red Gate. Nicholson. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 


1. The Ancient Law. Glasgow. (Doubleday, 

Page.) $1.50. 

2. The Great Secret. Oppenheim. (Little, 

Brown.) $1.50. 

3. The Black Bag. Vance. (Bobbs-Merrill.) 


4. The Lady of the Decoration. Little. (Cen- 

tury Co.) $1.00. 

5. The Fruit of the Tree. Wharton. (Scrib- 

ner.) $1.50. 

6. My Lady of Cleeve. Hartley. (Dodd, 

Mead.) $1.50. 


1. My Lady of Cleeve. Hartley. (Dodd, 

Mead.) $1.50. 

2. The Black Bag. Vance. (Bobbs-Merrill.) 


3. The Ancient Law. Glasgow. (Doubleday, 

Page.) $1.50. • 

4. Rosalind at Red Gate. Nicholson. 

(Bobbs-Merrill.) $i.«>. 

Brown.) $1.50. 

5. The Great Secret Oppenheim. (Little, 
Brown.) $1.50. 

6. The Shuttle. Burnett (Stokes.) $1.50. 


1. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 

2. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) $1.50. 

3. The Ancient Law. Glasgow. (Doubleday, 

Page.) $1.50. 

4. Beau Brocade. Orczy. (Lippincott) $1.50. 

5. The Car of Destiny. Williamson. (Mc- 

Clurc.) $1.50. 

6. The Lady of the Decoration. Little. (Cen- 

tury Co.) $1.00. 


1. The Ancient Law. Glasgow. (Doubleday, 

Page.) $1.50. 

2. The Fountain Sealed. Sedgwick. (Century 

Co.) $1.50. 

3. The Broken Road. Mason. (Scribner.) 


4. Loves of Pelleas and Etarre. Gale. (Mac- 

millan.) $1.50. 

5. Rosalind at Red Gate. Nicholson. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 

6. The Politician. Fogazzaro. (Luce.) $1.50. 


1. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) $1.50. 

2. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 

3. The Ancient Law. Glasgow. (Doubleday, 

Page.) $1.50. 

4. A Fountain Sealed. Sedgwick. (Century 

Co.) $1.50. 

5. The Black Bag. Vance. (Bobbs-Merrill.) 


6. The Romance of an Old-Fashioned Gentle- 

man. Smith. (Scribner.) $1.50. 


1. The Lady of the Decoration. Little. (Cen- 

tury Co.) $1.00. 

2. The Ancient Law. Glasgow. (Doubleday, 

Page.) $1.50. 

3. The Black Bag. Vance. (Bobbs-Merrill.) 


4. Somehow Good. De Morgan. (Holt) 


5. Rosalind at Red Gate. Nicholson. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 

6. Come and Find Me. Robins. (Century 

Co.) $1.50. 


1. Three Weeks. Glyn. (Duffield.) $1.50. 

2. The Yoke. Wales. (Stuyvesant.) $1.50. 

3. The Black Bag. Vance. (Bobbs-Merrill.) 


4. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 

5. Satan Sanderson. Rives. (Bobbs-Merrill.) 


6. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) $1.50. 


1. The Black Bag. Vance. (Bobbs-Merrill.) 


2. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 

3. The Shuttle. Burnett (Stokes.) $1.50. 



4. The Great Secret Oppenheim. (Little, 

Brown.) $1.50. 

5. My Lady of Cleeve. Hartley. (Dodd, 

Mead.) $1.50. 

6. Rosalind at Red Gate. Nicholson. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 


1. The Great Secret. Oppenheim. (Little, 

Brown.) $1.50. 

2. The Ancient Law. Glasgow. (Doubleday, 

Page.) $1.50. 

3. The Sorceress of Rome. Gallizier. (Page.) 


4. Somehow Good. De Morgan. (Holt.) 


5. The Lady of the Decoration. Little. (Cen- 

tury Co.) $1.00. 

6. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) $1.50. 


1. Three Weeks. Glyn. (Duffield.) $1.50. 

2. The Black Bag. Vance. (Bobbs-Merrill.) 


3. My Lady of Cleeve. Hartley. (Dodd, 

Mead.) $1.50. 

4. Rosalind at Red Gate. Nicholson. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 

5. Travers. Dean. (Stokes.) $1.50. 

6. The Ancient Law. Glasgow. (Doubleday, 

Page.) $1.50. 


1. The Great Secret. Oppenheim. (Little, 

Brown.) $1.50. 

2. The Black Bag. Vance. (Bobbs-Merrill.) 


3. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) $1.50. 

4. The Lady of the Decoration. Little. (Cen- 

tury Co.) $1.00. 

5. The Ancient Law. Glasgow. (Doubleday, 

Page.) $1.50. 

6. The 'Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 


1. The Lady of the Decoration. Little. (Cen- 

tury Co.) $1.00. 

2. The Shepherd of the Hills. Wright (Book 

Supply Co.) $1.50. 

3. The Fruit of the Tree. Wharton. (Scrib- 

ner.) $1.50. 

4. The Daughter of Anderson Crow. Mc- 

Cutcheon. (Dodd, Mead.) $1.50. 

5. The Car of Destiny. Williamsons. (Mc- 

Clure.) $1.50. 

6. The Black Bag. Vance. (Bobbs-Merrill.) 



1. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) $1.50. 

2. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 

3. The Broken Road. Mason. (Scribner.) 


4. Three Weeks. Glyn. (Duffield.) $1.50. 

5. The New Missioner. Woodrow. (Mc- 

Clure.) $1.50. 

6. The Daughter of Anderson Crow. Mc- 

Cutcheon. (Dodd, Mead.') $1.50. 


1. The Black Bag. Vance. (Bobbs-Merrill.) 


2. Rosalind at Red Gate. Nicholson. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 

3. Somehow Good. De Morgan. (Lane.) 


4. Satan Sanderson. Rives. (Bobbs-Merrill.) 


5. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) $1.50. 

6. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 


1. The Black Bag. Vance. (Bobbs-Merrill.) 


2. The Ancient Law. Glasgow. (Doubleday, 

Page.) $1.50. 

3. Rosalind at Red Gate. Nicholson. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 

4. Somehow Good. De Morgan. (Holt.) 


5. Dr. Ellen. Tompkins. (Baker & Taylor.) 


6. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 


1. The Ancient Law. Glasgow. (Doubleday, 

Page.) $1.50. 

2. The Black Bag. Vance. (Bobbs-Merrill.) 


3. Somehow Good. De Morgan. (Holt) 


4. The Great Secret Oppenheim. (Little, 

Brown.) $1.50. 

5. Ancestors. Atherton. (Harper.) $1.75. 

6. Heart of the West. Henry. (McClure.) 



1. The Black Bag. Vance. (Bobbs-Merrill.) 


2. The Great Secret. Oppenheim. (Little, 

Brown.) $1.50. 

3. Rosalind at Red Gate. Nicholson. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. # 

4. The Lady of the Decoration. Little. (Cen- 

tury Co.) $1.00. 

5. The Flying Death. Adams. (McClure.) 


6. Somehow Good. De Morgan. (Holt.) 



1. The Black Bag. Vance. (Bobbs-Merrill.) 


2. The Ancient Law. Glasgow. (Doubleday, 

Page.) $1.50. 

3. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 

4. The Lady of the Decoration. Little . (Cen- 

tury Co.) $1.00. 

5. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) $1.50. 

6. Aunt Jane of Kentucky. Hall. (Little, 

Brown.) $1.50. 


1. My Lady of Cleeve. Hartley. (Dodd, 

Mead.) $1.50. 

2. The Black Bag. Vance. (Bobbs-Merrill.) 




3. The Great Secret. Oppenheim. (Little, 

Brown.) $1.50. 

4. The Broken Road. Mason. (Scribner.) 


5. Somehow Good. De Morgan. (Holt) 


6. The Lady of the Decoration. Little. (Cen- 

tury Co.) $1.00. 


1. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 

2. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) $1.50. 

3. The Black Bag. Vance. (Bobbs-Merrill.) 


4. The Lady of the Decoration. Little. (Cen- 

tury Co.) $1.00. 

5. Somehow Good. De Morgan. (Holt.) $1.50. 

6. Rosalind at Red Gate. Nicholson. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 


1. The Black Bag. Vance. (Bobbs-Merrill.) 


2. The Ancient Law. Glasgow. (Doubleday, 

Page.) $1.50. 

3. Somehow Good. De Morgan. (Holt) 


4. Seraphica. McCarthy. (Harper.) $1.50. 

5. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) $1.50. 

6. The Lion and the Mouse. Klein. (Grosset) 

50 cents. 


1. The Ancient Law. Glasgow. (Doubleday, 

Page.) $1.50. 

2. The Broken Road. Mason. (Scribner.) 


3. The Black Bag. Vance. (Bobbs-Merrill.) 


4. Somehow Good. De Morgan. (Holt.) 


5. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 

6. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) $1.50. 


1. Three Weeks. Glyn. (Duffield.) $1.50. 

2. The Ancient Law. Glasgow. (Doubleday, 

Page.) $1.50. 

3. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) $1.50. 

4. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 

5. My Lady of Cleeve. Hartley. (Dodd, 

Mead.) $1.50. 

6. The Lady of the Decoration. Little. (Cen- 

tury Co.) $1.00. 


1. The Black Bag. Vance. (Bobbs-Merrill.) 


2. The Fruit of the Tree. Wharton. (Scrib- 

ner.) $1.50. 

3. The Lost Leader. Oppenheim. (Little, 

Brown.) $1.50. 

4. The Ancient Law. Glasgow. (Doubleday, 

Page.) $1.50. 

5. The Lady of the Decoration. Little. (Cen- 

tury Co.) $1.00. 

6. Rosalind at Red Gate. Nicholson. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 


* ¥F%Y €tk hr f Glvn - (Duffield.) $1.50. 
2 ' ™ e Yoke Wales. (Stuyvesant.) $1.50. 

3. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) $1.50. 

4. Aunt Jane of Kentucky. Hall. (Little 

Brown.) $1.50. 

5- The Lady of the Decoration. Little. (Cen- 
tury Co.) $1.00. 
6. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 







The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) 
The Black Bag. Vance. (Bobbs- 

3- My Lady of Cleeve. Hartley. 

Mead.) $1.50. 

4. Rosalind at Red Gate. Nicholson. 

Merrill.) $1.50. 

I* I? re l Weeks - Glyn. (Duffield.) 
6. The Brass Bowl. Vance. (Bobbs- 


I' ?t e ™ U \ t] * Bu r nett - (Stokes.) $1.50. 

2. The Black Bag. Vance. (Bobbs-Merrill.) 

3. P/ys" Off. Van Dyke. (Scribner.) $1.50. 

4 * M A *f $ y * of Cleeve - Hartley. (Dodd, 
Mead.) $1.50. 

5. The Great Secret. Oppenheim. (Little, 

Brown.) $1.50. 

6. The Ancient Law. Glasgow. (Doubleday. 

Page.) $1.50. 


I' S ree V Y eeks ™, ? lyn ' (Duffield.) $1.50. 
5? e i f oke - Wales. (Stuyvesant) $1.50. 

3. The Black Bag. Vance. (Bobbs-Merrill.) 


4. My Lady of Cleeve. Hartley. (Dodd, 

Mead.) $1.50. 

5. The Ancient Law. Glasgow. (Doubleday. 

Page.) $1.50. 

6. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 


1. Somehow Good. De Morgan. (Holt.) 


2. The Black Bag. Vance. (Bobbs-Merrill.) 


3. For Jacmta. Bindloss. (Stokes.) $1.50. 
* i? e Reavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 
5. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) $1.50. 

0. New Chronicles of Rebecca. Wiggin. 

(Houghton, Mifflin.) $1.25. 


1. The Shepherd of the Hills. Wright. (Book 

Supply Co.) $1.50. 

2. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) $1.50. 

3. The Black Bag. Vance. (Bobbs-Merrill.) 


4 * 2J C yif eavers - Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 

5. The Great Secret. Oppenheim. (Little, 

Brown.) $1.50. 

6. Rosalind at Red Gate. Nicholson. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 

11 \ 



1. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) $1.50. 

2. The Black Bag. Vance. (Bobbs-Merrill.) 


3. Satan Sanderson. Rives. (Bobbs-Merrill.) 


4. The Beloved Vagabond. Locke. (Lane.) 


5. Three Weeks. Glyn. (Duffield.) $1.50. 

6. Life's Shop Window. Cross. (Ken- 

nerley.) $1.50. 


1. The Black Bag. Vance. (Bobbs-Merrill.) 


2. Somehow Good. De Morgan. (Holt.) $1.75. 

3. Three Weeks. Glyn. (Duffield.) $1.50. 

4. The Shuttle. Burnett (Stokes.) $1.50. 

5. The Lady of the Decoration. Little. (Cen- 

tury Co.) $1.00. 

6. Rosalind at Red Gate. Nicholson. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 


1. The Ancient Law. Glasgow. (Doubleday, 

Page.) $1.50. 

2. Rosalind at Red Gate. Nicholson. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 

3. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 

4. The Shepherd of the Hills. Wright. (Book 

Supply Co.) $1.50. 

5. The Great Secret. Oppenbeim. (Little, 

Brown.) $1.50. 

6. The Romance of An Old Fashioned Gentle- 

man. Smith. (Scribner.) $1.50. 


1. The Lady of the Decoration. Little. (Cen- 

tury Co.) $1.00. 

2. Ancestors. Atherton. (Harper.) $1.75. 

3. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) $1.50. 

4. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 

5. The California Earthquake. Jordan. (Rob- 

ertson.) $35°- 

6. Testimony of Suns. Sterling. (Robertson.) 



1. The Ancient Law. Glasgow. (Doubleday, 

Page.) $1.50. 

2. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) $1.50. 

3. The Black Bag. Vance. (Bobbs-Merrill.) 


4. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 

5. The Daughter of Anderson Crow. Mc- 

Cutcheon. (Dodd, Mead.) $1.50. 

6. The Lady of the Decoration. Little. (Cen- 

tury Co.) $1.00. 


1. Three Weeks. Glyn. (Duffield.} $1.50. 

2. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.l $1.50. 

3. Rosalind at Red Gate. Nicholson. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 

4. The Black Bag. Vance. (Bobbs-Merrill.) 


5. The Great Secret. Oppcnheim. (Little, 

Brown.) $1.50. 

6. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 


1. The Ancient Law. Glasgow. (Doubleday, 

Page.) $1.50. 

2. The Lady of the Decoration. Little. (Cen- 

tury Co.) $1.00. 

3. The Black Bag. Vance. (Bobbs-Merrill.) 


4. The Fruit of the Tree. Wharton. (Scrib- 

ner.) $1.50. 

5. The Shepherd of the Hills. Wright. (Book 

Supply Co.) $1.50. 

6. The Daughter of Anderson Crow. Mc- 

Cutchcon. (Dodd, Mead.) $1.50. 


1. The Ancient Law. Glasgow. (Musson.) 


2. Dr. Ellen. Tompkins. (Baker-Taylor.) 


3. Three Weeks. Glyn. (Briggs.) $1.25. 

4. The Lady of the Decoration. Little. (Mus- 

son.) $1.00. 

5. The Car of Destiny. Williamson. (Mus- 

son.) $1.25. 

6. Laid up in Lavender. Weyman. (Long- 

mans, Green.) $1.25. 


1. Three Weeks. Glyn. (Duffield.) $1.50. 

2. Somehow Good. De Morgan. (Holt) 


3. My Lady of Cleeve. Hartley. (Dodd, 

Mead.) $1.50. 

4. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) $1.50. 

5. The Black Bag. Vance. (Bobbs-Merrill.) 


6. Rosalind at Red Gate. Nicholson. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 

From the above list the six best selling 
books are selected according to the following 
system : 


A book standing 1st on any list receives 10 































According to the foregoing? lists, the six 
books which have sold best in the order of 
demand during the month are: 


1. The Black Bag. Vance. (Bobbs-Mer- 

rill.) $1.50 242 

2. The Ancient Law. Glasgow. (Double- 

day, Page.) $1.50 153 

3. The Shuttle. Burnett. (Stokes.) $1.50. 175 

4. The Weavers. Parker. (Harper.) S1.50. 136 

5. The I-ady of the Decoration. Little. 

(Century Co.) $1.00 no 

6. Somehow Good. De Morgan. (Holt.) 

$175 105 

"6 he 

Fire Insurance Company of America 







On the 31st day of December, 1907. 


Cash Capital 

Reserve, Re-Insurance (Fire) . 
Reserve, Re-Insurance (Inland) 
Reserve, Unpaid Losses (Fire) 
Reserve, Unpaid Losses (Inland) 
Other Claims .... 

Net Surplus 
Total Assets 




Surplus as to Policy-Holders . . $7,754,605.88 



WM. B. CLARK, President 

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HENRY E. REES, Secretary 

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A Magazine of Literature and Life 

MAY, 1908 


It is related that when Thackeray was 
preparing to write The Virginians, he 

sought out Mr. Kennedy, 
Our the American historian, 

Unconventional and asked to be told 
Portraits something about Wash- 

ington. Kennedy began 
a lengthy narration along conventional 
lines, when Thackeray interrupted him 
testily: "No. No. That's not what I 
want. Tell me. Was he a fussy old gen- 
tleman in a w r ig, who spilled snuff down 
the front of his coat?" In a somewhat 
similar spirit, we feel that in presenting, 
from time to time, and especially at this 
season of the year, these unconventional 
and out-of-doors glimpses of certain men 
and women of letters, no explanation or 
apology to be necessary. In former days, 
owing to the stilted ideas which prevailed, 
this kind of protraiture would have been 
regarded, to a certain extent, as infra dig. 
Having one's lineaments reproduced was 
then a serious business. For the ordeal 
it was necessary to be endhnanche. The 
literary man, in his pictures, should be the 
literary man, and nothing else. Thack- 
eray, we know, preferred to his writing 
table, dawdling away the day at Rich- 
mond or Greenwich ; Dickens did not dis- 
dain to don tweeds and go off for long 
tramps about the countryside. Yet in pro- 
traiture the one is always outlined against 
a wall of the Athenaeum Club, and the 
other is shown sitting, pen in hand, at his 
working desk at Gadshill. One cannot vis- 
ualise the countenance of Sir Walter 
Scott surmounted by that extraordinary 
dome of a head without mentally seeing 

the great, stately, high-backed chair ; or 
that of Bulwer Lvtton without being 
overawed by the gorgeousness of the 
w r aistcoat and the luxuriance of the 
whiskers. And what was true of the 
giants was also true of the smaller men 
and women. 

But Time and the kodak man, whom 
O. Henry somewhere calls the successor 
of the buccaneer of the old Spanish Main, 
have changed all that. So far as we know, 
Mr. Howells or Mr. Henry James has 
not yet been photographed "at the top of 
the swing," or "following through," or 
holding the steering wheel of a forty 
horse-power touring car, or vigorously 
rooting for the "Giants," the "Cubs," the 
"Pirates," or the "White Sox," according 
to opinion or preference. On the other 
hand, from a great many pictures we are 
led to believe that the author of Inno- 
cents Abroad is a very agile and active 
youngster of seventy odd years. We do 
not recall any portrait of a frock-coated 
Mr. Kipling, or of a Mr. Rudvard Kip- 
ling caught in the solemn act of meditat- 
ing, or composing "The Recessional"; 
but the be-spectacled Anglo-Indian in his 
tweed suit, and pipe in hand, is very fa- 
miliar to us indeed. For our part we con- 
fess to liking better the new order of 
things, holding it to be an indication of 
greater naturalness. The poseur is al- 
ways \vith us, but he is growing more and 
more rare among the healthy, normal, out- 
of-doors men who earn the proverbial 
bread and butter by the pen. 


A writer in the London Sketch calls 

attention to the irritation caused among 

some people in England 

on account of tlie party 

Mr. Kipling attitude assumed bv 

in Politics RtidyanI Kipling in his 

Letters to the Family. 

The writer take-, the ground that Mr. 

Kipling is the real wearer of the national 
laurel crown and that a poet laureate, like 
a judge or the governor of a prison, is 
supposed to have no party politics. 
"When," is asked, "will he go into the 
East End of London or into the slums 
of our manufacturing towns, and give us 
his impressions? The white man's bur- 
den docs not weigh on the white man 
abroad only. The wife beater and the 
child starver are within his gates. And 
when Mr. Kipling's pen is given over to 
a crusade of Imperialism, there are those 
who long to see liim instead a missionary 
of domesticity. What could he not do 
for England as a social reformer?" AH 
this is very interesting. Only the writer 
seems to have entirely forgotten that Mr. 
Kipling once wrote a story about the ad- 
ventures of a certain Bad alia Herods- 


The Sketch writer is of an optimistic 
frame of mind and expresses the belief 
that Mr. Kipling's day of reform "will 
shortly conic." 

Indeed, now that Mr. Kipling is getting t 


tractable age at which o 
the opinions of one's ch; 
enough that T.ady Bin 


things i 

spect for is likely 
Tories may enlist him 
of the philanthropists. "The Cape 
the punning name she long ago 
: and at the Cape he now is ; but when 
is to England there are a variety of 
which we should all like to see him 
And we know that he would not 
muddle, once he gave his mind to any one of 
the great social problems now urgently needing 
to be solved. Mr. Kipling has thought once of 
going into the House of Commons ; and has 
perhaps thought twice about going into the 
House of Lords, for it was generally reported 
that the late Government was willing to place 
a coronet on his tiulaureHcd brows. In either 
ease he would range himself on one side of the 
House or the other; and that is just what 
should not he. Mr. Kipling belongs to a!! 
England, and it is a matter of public import 
that, when he sits down to write or stands up 
to talk, he should not give up to a party what 
was meant for mankind. 

In the opening chapter of The Xcw- 
eomes Thackeray speaks of that time in 


the spring of life "when to know Thomp- 
son, who had written a magazine article, 

was an honour and a 
Travelling privilege ; and to see 

with Brown, author of the 

Mark Twain last romance, in the flesh, 

and actually walking in 
the park with his umbrella and Mrs. 
Brown, was an event remarkable and to 
the end of life to be perfectly well re- 
membered." We read of how M. de Bal- 
zac once entered a theatre in Vienna and 
of how the audience rose in recognition 
and appreciation. Countless anecdotes 
bear witness to the affection of a gener- 
ous and kindly world for such men as 
Dickens, and Victor Hugo, and our own 
Oliver Wendell Holmes. The last named 
was once asked if all the admiration and 
applause did not bore him. "Not a bit," 
he replied. "They can't clap loud enough 
to please me." 

There are two men of letters living to- 
day who have been shown that they have 
genuinely this hold upon all people speak- 
ing the English tongue. They are Rud- 
yard Kipling and Mark Twain. It is not 

because of literary fame — it is not liter- 
ary fame. Mr. Meredith, for example, 
has that, and Mr. Hardy, and Mr. Swin- 
burne, and Mr. Howells. And between 
Mr. Kipling and Mr. Clemens, it must be 
said that the former, though only in his 
forty-fourth year, saw the zenith of 
his popularity eight or nine years ago, 
whereas the author of Tom Sawyer and 
Huckleberry Finn is just getting the full 
sweep of his reward at three score and 
ten. It was the man on the street, the 
motor man of the surface car, the ticket 
chopper on the elevated, who was most 
eager in his inquiries at that time in the 
March of 1899 when Kipling was lying 
desperately ill in the Hotel Grenoble of 
New York. It was a stevedore on the 
dock whom we first heard ask the ques- 
tion, "Where's his white suit?" as, one 
day, a month or so ago, Mr. Clemens 
climbed up the gang plank to the deck of 
the steamship Bermudian. 

"Is this Mr. Clemens?" After the 
fifth turn of the promenade deck the 
questioner had come to a stop before the 



steamer chair. He is a stout man and is 
breathing rather hard. "Is this Mr. 
Clemens — Mr. Samuel L. Clemens?" 
The man reclining in the chair removes 
a very black looking cigar from his lips 
and pleads guilty to the accusation. 
Thereupon the stout man fixes him with 
his glittering eye and goes on in a tone of 
mingled defiance, emphasis and embar- 
rassment. "My name is . I'm from 

\ew Rochelle, New York. I want to 

say — that I think it is the duty — and the 
privilege— of every American — to shake 
hands— with Mark Twain. Yes, Mr. 
Twain. I mean Mr. Clemens— I want to 
thank you- — for the great pleasure I have 
derived^from reading your books." Five 
minutes afterwards the embarrassment 
has all worn off and he is expatiating elo- 
quently on totites les gloires of New 
Rochelle. that being the subject on which 
he feels best qualified to do himself jus- 
tice. At the end of a half hour's conversa- 
tion, in which the great man has had the 
opportunity of throwing in half a dozen 
brief sentences, he rises, shakes hands 
again vigorously, and resumes his prom- 
enade round the deck. Later, in the 
smoking room, he is heard discussing the 
episode. "I wanted to hear him talk," he 
explains. "And I did. A golden talker, 
sir, a golden talker." And in his utter- 
ance and belief he is perfectly honest and 

For the accompanying "Unconven- 
tional Portrait" of Mr. Jesse Lynch Will- 
iams shooting quail over 
The Gun, that part of the Princeton 

the Dog, and campus which lies be- 
the Man tween his home and Car- 

negie Lake, we do not 
claim that it is a good likeness of the 
author of The Lost Duchess (to confine 
ourselves to Mr. Williams's latest book), 
or even a good likeness of the dog. We 
do claim that the picture of the gun is ex- 


cedent. And that is something, for the 
gun is an excellent gun with a real indi- 
viduality. It is the same one that Mr. 
Williams used when he was on the gun 
team in his undergraduate days. He was 
captain of the team when Princeton won 
the championship against Yale, Harvard, 
and the University of Pennsylvania. The 
official reports will show that the gun of 
this picture made the highest score of the 
team. Mr. Williams admits that he hap- 
pened to stay at Princeton that day to 
pass off a final examination, and that the 
other men took turns shooting for him 
when his name was called. But, he ar- 
gues defiantly, didn't that show what a 
high regard the team had for his shoot- 
ing? At any rate, to-day he professes 
himself willing to shoot with any '"liter- 
ary sport" in the country — including 
Stewart Edward White. 

The accompanying unconventional 
portrait picture of the illustrator Dan 
Say re Groesbeck was 
Th Old taken in the studio which 

Studio £ e occupy during the 

first two years after 
coming to New York. 
This old studio, one of the oldest and 
most picturesque in the Washington 
Square district, was previously occupied 
by Gilbert White, the portrait painter, 
and brother of Stewart Edward White, 
the novelist, and after Mr. Groesbeck 
gave it up, has been taken by Richard 
George, the sculptor and son of the late 
Henry George, who now occupies it. It 
is a simple and primitive domicile for 
any one who attempts to live as well as 
work in it, consisting of two rooms, one 
the studio proper, a large room with a 
high vaulted ceiling and a great window 
overlooking the square, and the other a 
combined bedroom and kitchen separated 
from the studio proper only by a curtain. 
Among other makeshifts of housekeep- 
ing necessitated by the arrangement is the 
use that is made in the daytime of the 
bathtub as a sideboard. Mr. Groesbeck. 
who came East after a wandering life 
from city to city in the West, made the 


most of the possibilities of the little 
studio in which he hung the outfit which 
had served him as a plainsman at one 
period in his career, as well as other 
treasure trove which he began to collect 
here and especially the old copper vessels 
for which he has a special predilection. 
Perhaps no other artist who came to 
New York has ever had an equal success 
in so short a time. He threw up a good 
position in Chicago as a newspaper car- 
toonist and the rival of McCntcheon, to 
i new start as an illustrator in a 


city where he was wholly unknown. It 
was a sharp struggle for a while, and he 
was reduced to his last cent and a greatly 
depleted wardrobe before he finally at- 
tracted the attention of the then editors 
of the American Magazine, who gave 
him the cover for the number contain- 
ing the first instalment of The Mystery, 
by Stewart Edward White and Samuel 
Hopkins Adams. After this he had had 
all the work he could do, both for the 
books and for magazines. He is now en- 
gaged on a series of illustrations in colour 
for Joseph Conrad's new book, The Duel. 

Who's Who in America, for 1908- 
1909, has just appeared. It contains 16,- 

395 names, of which 2,057 
The New were not included in the 

"Who's Who edition of 1906-1907. 
in America" That is to say, about that 

number of persons have 
done something or other in the past two 
years which, in the judgment of the edi- 
tors, brings them up to the standard set 
for admission to the book. The per 
capita rate at which we are becoming 
famous — in our own opinion, at least — 
must interest good Americans; and all 
who take such statistics seriously may 
get some light on this subject by study- 
ing the various editions of Who's Who. 
The first issue (1889-1900) contained 
8,602 names: the second (1901-1902), 
11.551; the third (1903-1905). 14433: 
the fourth (1906-1907), 16,216, and the 
fifth. 16,395. But from the present edi- 
tion there have been dropped 1,868 names 
which were in the 1906-1007 edition. 
"Of these." says the Preface. "756 are 
known to have died, and their names are 
included in the cross-references. Among 
the other 1.112 who have been dropped 
are some who were included because they 
then belonged to the arhitrary classifica- 
tion designated elsewhere." And further 
along in the Preface this "arbitrary" in- 
clusion is to some extent accounted for 
on the ground of "positions temporarily 
occupied." This implies a nice, and for 
the present purposes, perhaps a necessary 
distinction hetween those in whom fame 
is acute and incurable and those who 
have it and get over it. However, it 
would appear from the foregoing statis- 


tics that we are becoming famous only at 
the rate of about 1,200 to 1,500 a year, 
and that is disquieting because, we be- 
lieve, the annual death rate is consider- 
ably in excess of that number. 

There is no disposition to find serious 
fault with Who's Who in America. Un- 
questionably it is a most useful book, and 
in the main very accurate. Its chief 
shortcoming continues to be its small per- 
centage of names of persons of im- 
portance in the industrial and business 
world. Doubtless it is difficult to get ade- 
quate data about our "captains of indus- 
try," yet it does seem that an intelligent 
and persistent effort would bring to light 
more of these men. The "Geographical 
Index" (a very useful and interesting 
feature included for the first time in the 
present volume) shows the emphasis 
upon the professions, and neglect of com- 
mercial and industrial achievements, and 
also (perhaps) a tendency to be im- 
pressed by the presumed "culture" of 
Eastern communities. The returns from 
a few important factory towns will serve 
to suggest the disposition to disregard 
mere mechanical skill and executive abil- 
ity, extraordinary degrees of which must 
be employed in the development and con- 
duct of great industries. Paterson. New 
Jersey, for example, with a population of 
112,801.* is represented in this "Geo- 
graphical Index" by just thirteen per- 
sons, and only four of them are classified 
as business men; Fall River (105.042) 
is credited with seven, and all are profes- 
sional men; and Lynn (78,748) with 
eleven, all but two of whom are in the 
professions. On the other hand, Spring- 
field, Massachusetts (78,836), which has 
important manufacturing and commer- 
cial interests, and an "intellectual atmos- 
phere" as well, returns 41 distinguished 
persons, 39 of whom are strictly pro- 
fessional men. Out in the West, there 
are some even more curious exhibits, il- 
lustrating the same principle. From St. 
Joseph, Missouri, a thriving city of 118.- 
OOO inhabitants, only four individuals — 
a consul-general, a Roman Catholic bish- 
op and two authors — find their way into 
Who's Who. while twenty are enrolled 

•United States Census Estimate, 1906. 


Rex Bench at Nome 

from Columbia, Missouri ( 12,316 in 
1900), all of them professional men, 
and all but two members of the faculty 
of the University of Missouri. Again — 
and contrasting Eastern and Western 
cities — 749 notables have been discovered 
in Boston's population of 602,278, as 
against 204 in St. Louis's 649,320, which 
disparity, we say at once, is due largely 
to Harvard. It is hard to explain these 
absurd disparities in favour of the pro- 
fessions on any other ground than that 
the editors of Who's Who, in making up 
their lists of names, follow too much the 
lines of least resistance — college cata- 
logues, lists of the members of learned 
societies, publishers' announcements, 



magazine indices, and other easily obtain- 
able records. ^ 

Of the making of Who's Whos of vari- 
ous kinds, there seems literally to be no 

end. The first issue of 
Other the English publication 

"Who's of that name (in which 

Whos" its present scope was as- 

sumed) was put forth in 
1897, and has been followed each year 
by editions of increasing plumpness. The 
English book has, indeed, apparently 
taken on flesh rather more rapidly than 
the American, owing in part to the fact 
that the English editors have not yet 
mastered the theory of temporary fame, 
as above outlined. Of the Who's Whos 
born within the last two years, we have 
such volumes as the Anglo- African 
Who's Who, Who's Who in the Lyceum, 
Who's Who in the Far East, Wcr Ist's, 
Who's W ho in the Anglo-American Col- 
ony in Paris, and, very recently, Qui etes- 
vous, which promises to do for French- 
men all and more than has been done for 
Anglo-Saxons by the "little fat red 
books. " This last-named volume we have 
not yet examined thoroughly, but the 
Who's Who in the Anglo-American Col- 
ony in Paris offers some interesting sug- 
gestions as to what the bacillus may do 
once it begins to thrive in France — and 
especially in Paris. The naive editor of 
this little book is wide awake to the be- 
setting sin of such publications which, he 
says, "are partial to the educational 
classes, and captains of industry are 
somewhat neglected." That, however, is 
not going to be the case with the present 
volume, "although," our editor remarks, 
sadly, "it must be confessed that the most 
difficult people to reach are those en- 
gaged in commercial enterprises. This 
statement appears to be somewhat harsh, 
but it is true." He thinks this may be 
due to the fact that business men "are 
constantly besieged by propositions to 
print biographies for a consideration," an 
explanation which, oddly enough, ap- 
pears in exactly these words in the Pref- 
ace of Who's Who in America for 1903- 
1905. Particular attention has been paid 
to social life, "for Society is a force to be 
reckoned with in Anglo-American Paris." 
The biographies, we are assured, are 

"brief but bright" ; also, that "everything 
has been done to make the book as at- 
tractive as possible, although having in 
view r its practical and sociological side. 
This," it is explained, "is mentioned be- 
cause the practical is not always the most 
attractive." ^ 

The most important member of the 
Anglo-American colony in Paris, appar- 
ently, is Theodore Roosevelt. His bi- 
ography, at least, leads all the rest. We 
are told of him, among other things, that 
"he is the most popular man in civilisa- 
tion"; also, that "his interior policy has 
greatly tended to calm susceptibilities." 
Concerning another famous man in 
Anglo-American Paris, we are informed 
that "young hopeful was sent to school 
at Belem, in an institution w r hich had the 
honour of educating princes and the chil- 
dren of the grandees of Portugal." Sub- 
sequently his father went to Paris, where 
"young hopeful was again sent to school 
to learn French, which was of great use 
to him in the siege of Paris." Thereafter, 
"having passed through a bank, then a 
lawyer's office, he found himself em- 
ployed by the London and Southwestern 
Railway Company." Another notable, 
who was born in Pittsburg, "moved to 
Philadelphia when thirteen years old, 
and passed the following five years at 
various occupations, although finding 
time to graduate from the Germantown 
Grammar School. • A certain lady 
"roughed it in the War of 1870, and dur- 
ing the Commune, and feels thankful for 
the education thus acquired." Of an- 
other notable we are told, with highly sat- 
isfying explicitness, that "the subject of 
this sketch is of Scotch-Irish parentage, 
and was born at the city of New York 
in the year of Jenny Lind's first appear- 
ance"; furthermore, that "he became a 
farmer's boy out in the great Wide 
West." ^ 

The French Academy met recently for 
the purpose of electing successors to MM. 

Berthelot, Andre Theu- 
Thrce riet, and Sully Prud- 

New homme, all of whom died 

Immortals during 1907. Of the 

thirty-seven living mem- 
bers there were present thirty-three, the 




Mr. Bumble 

absentees being Ludovic Halevy, Edmond 
Rostand, fimile Ollivier, and Anatole 
France. For the chair left vacant by the 
death of Berthelot, Francis Charmes, the 
only candidate, was elected on the first 
ballot, by twenty-seven votes, six blanks 
being cast. As the successor of Andre 
Theuriet, Jean Richepin was chosen on 
the fourth ballot by eighteen votes, one 
more than the necessary number. Eight 
votes were cast for Henri de Regnier, six 
for M. Haraucourt, and one blank. On 
the second ballot Henri Poincare was 
elected to the chair of Sully Prudhomme 
by seventeen votes, against ten for 
Charles de Pomairols, four for Jean 
Aicard, and two for fimile Bergerat. On 
the first ballot M. Poincare had fourteen 
votes, M. de Pomairols twelve and M. 
Aicard seven. 

We have from time to time called at- 
tention to certain aspects of British week- 

liness, especially its in- 
ordinate solemnity of 
manner in the discussion 
of trivial things. It 
seemed advisable to 
quote from it an occasional passage as a 
warning to some of our own pundits and 
as offering a little consolation to those 
who are inclined to think that American 
writers are the worst in the world. But 
it would be wrong to infer that the 
British writer of the class we have in 
mind is always concerned with disciplin- 
ing the reader's intellect. Sometimes he 
tries honestly to relax with him, even to 
mingle in his games. The following para- 
graph from a recent issue of the London 
Academy illustrates admirably the 
spirit of British weekliness in this lighter 

We do not, as a rule, encourage "Limerick" 
competitions, but the witty remark made by a 
certain reverend gentleman in one of the 
Houses of Convocation at York the other day 
has almost induced us to offer a prize for one 
of these rhymes. The gentleman in question 
(our impression is that it was Dr. Cox) is re- 
ported by the Daily Telegraph to have ob- 
served in the course of a discussion of Mr. 
McKenna's Education Bill that, after reading 
its provisions, he had come to the conclusion 
that it proceeded from a place which rhymes 

with McKenna. The first line of the Limerick 
would, of course, be : "There was a young man 
named McKenna." We invite suggestions for 
the other lines from some of our more frivo- 
lous readers. 

There you have it in its darkest form. 
Nature never designed that type of man 
for playfulness, and any venture of his 
at pleasantry is a grim struggle against 
destiny, almost shocking to a sympathetic 
spectator. Nature has evidently designed 
the British weekly paragrapher for one 
of two purposes : First, the simple narra- 
tion of facts, the delivery of "a plain 
message bluntly" (wherein he excels), 
and second, the reinforcement of plati- 
tude. He is consecrated to the solemn 
office of saying things that no sane man 
disputes, on the chance that lunatics may 
read and be converted. And who shall 
say this may not serve a useful end? But. 
humorous writing on his part is like a dis- 
play of physical deformity — matter for 
averted eyes or merely morbid interest. 

Turning over the pages of a volume 
of Emerson the other day, we came upon 

the following passage in 
Emerson his essay on "Compensa- 

as a tion." If he had written 

Muck-Raker it at any time during the 

past five years, he would 
have been called by the subsidised press 
"a muck-raker." Chancellor Day would 
have said that the Concord philosopher 
was heading "a raid on prosperity." 
Young Mr. Rockefeller would have ex- 
cluded the whole volume of essays from 
the library of his Sunday-school. Listen 
to Emerson himself : 

All the old abuses in society, universal, and 
particular, all unjust accumulations of prop- 
erty and power, are avenged in the same man- 
ner. Fear is an instructor of great sagacity, 
and the herald of all revolutions. One thing 
he teaches, that there is rottenness where he 
appears. He is a carrion crow, and though 
you see not well what he hovers for, there is 
death somewhere. Our property is timid, our 
laws are timid, our cultivated classes are timid. 
Fear for ages has boded and mowed and gib- 
bered over government and property. That 
obscene bird is not there for nothing. He in- 
dicates great wrongs which must be revised. 





While there are few, if any, literary 
centenaries of importance to be cele- 
brated during the present 
year, it will be another 
matter in 1909. In Janu- 
ary next comes the Poe 
centenary, which will un- 
questionably stir up real interest. Other 
centenaries of 1909 are those of Oliver 
Wendell Holmes, Tennyson, Darwin, and 
Elizabeth Barrett Browning, who, it will 
be remembered, was three years older 
than her husband. The Thackeray cen- 
tenary will come in 191 1, and that of 
Dickens in 1912. 

In the eyes of many persons the ex- 
treme poverty in which Ouida passed her 

last years will always re- 
main to a certain degree 
inexplicable. It seems 
to have been more or less 
unnecessary. If a good 
solicitor had been given free play in her 
affairs he very probably could have res- 
cued enough from the general shipwreck 
to have assured her a comfortable an- 
nuity. But to find a good solicitor and 
place herself unreservedly in his hands, 
was not Ouida's way. Her interests were 
always subordinated to her convictions, 
or rather, to her prejudices. Our read- 
ers all remember the great success 
throughout this country two or three 
years ago of Paul Potter's dramatisation 
of Under Two Flags. Ouida's share was 
to have been one-half the royalties. She 
would take nothing. Money from an 
American source, in her eyes, would have 
brought contamination. 

The lists at the end of our April issue 
showed The Lady of the Decoration as 

one of the "Six Best 
Close Sellers." It was the 

to the eleventh consecutive 

Record month in which the little 

book had appeared in this 
enviable department, and if it does not 
establish a record in the history of the 
"Six Best Sellers," it has already done 
considerably better in this respect than 
any book published in the present century. 
Back along in 1899 and 1900, Mr. Charles 

Major's When Knighthood Was in 
Flower was doing great things in the eyes 
of those booksellers who are good enough 
to supply us with the returns. It made 
its first appearance in the lists for April, 

1899, and remained in the lists until June, 

1900, inclusive. The next best record 
was that of David Harum, which was a 
"Best Seller" from March, 1899, till 
March, 1900, inclusive. But When 
Knighthood Was in Flower and David 
Harum were launched in a period of 
greater sales and less spirited competition, 
and taking these facts into consideration 
we are not sure that the record of The 
Lady of the Decoration is not of really 
wider significance. 

To those persons who like the sort of 
reading which is clearly indicated by the 

title The Four-Pools 
"The Mystery may be very 

Four-Pools cordially recommended. 

Mystery" The scene of the tale is 

laid in Virginia, near and 
in the Luray Cave. The chief ingredi- 
ents of the plot are a murder, a robbery, 
two ghosts, and the atmosphere of negro 
superstition. The story itself is a good 
one, but nothing positively astonishing. 
The chief virtue of the book is that it in- 
troduces in the character of Terry K. 
Patten an amateur detective of real in- 
dividuality; potentially the most enter- 
taining figure of this kind that has ap- 
peared since Sherlock Holmes. 

From every possible point of view, "the 
late Tower-Hill-Roosevelt-Kaiser Wil- 

helm diplomatic muddle 

R h H was one °* tne most un ~ 

oug - ouse neC essary and also one of 

Diplomacy thft mQSt stupid ^ 

formances of its kind 
that has been seen for many years. Of 
course, first of all, the person immedi- 
ately to blame is the Kaiser himself. He 
had been asked confidentially whether 
Dr. David Jayne Hill would be accepta- 
ble as American ambassador to the Ger- 
man Court, and he had replied that Dr. 
Hill would be acceptable. That should 
have ended the affair, so far as he was 
concerned. His subsequent shuffling and 



indiscreet talk after Dr. Hill's appoint- 
ment had been publicly announced, was 
an extraordinary thing for him to do, 
brought up as he had been with a perfect 
knowledge of diplomatic usage. But 
while the Kaiser is the most conspicuous 
offender, a good many other persons are 
more or less to blame. Mr. Charlemagne 
Tower was not blameless when he wrote 
to President Roosevelt a letter indicating 
that he did not intend much longer to re- 
main in the diplomatic service. Presi- 
dent Roosevelt was decidedly to blame 
for treating this purely personal letter as 
an official resignation to be acted on after 
his hair-trigger fashion. Then Mr. 
Tower again, or — as perhaps we may dis- 
creetly observe — some one in his house- 
hold, was to blame for trying to create an 
impression that Dr. Hill was not just the 
right sort of person to be ambassador to 
Germany, thereby causing the whole af- 
fair to become public property. Ameri- 
cans were justly indignant at having it 
said in Berlin that, in the opinion of the 
Kaiser, Dr. Hill would not be truly repre- 
sentative of the United States. That is a 
question which the United States might 
be left to determine for itself. For- 
tunately, the prompt volte-face executed 
by the Kaiser, and his very meek ex- 
planation, settled the whole affair before 
it became serious. Otherwise, it is likely 
that the American embassy to Germany 
would have been left vacant for some 
time, and the memories of Manila Bay 
and of the clash between Admiral Dewey 
and Von Diederich would have flamed up 
onjce more in the memory of the Ameri- 
can people. Ten years of patient diplo- 
macy on the part of the German Govern- 
ment has skinned over that very sore 
spot : but we cannot say that Americans 
are particularly fond of the bureaucratic 
side of Germany. 

Some attention has been called to the 
personality of Mr. Charlemagne Tower; 
though, in a general way, few people 
seem to know very much about him. Mr. 
Tower may perhaps most accurately be 
described as a sort of Philadelphian Fair- 
banks. He is tall and thin and rather 
good-looking, utterly devoid of any sense 
of humour, and quite uneasy in the pres- 
ence of those whom he thinks disposed to 

see the humorous side of things. He 
is a very wealthy man, a graduate of Ex- 
eter and of Harvard, and is interested in 
a number of large manufacturing and 
mining interests. He once wrote a book 
on Lafayette in the American Revolu- 
tion, which was published in 1895. He 
was, however, quite unknown to the pub- 
lic at large at the time when President 
McKinley took office in 1897. Many 
persons were anxious then to have Mr. 
Andrew D. White made ambassador to 
Germany. Mr. White had already been 
a Minister at the German Court from 
1879 to 1 88 1. He had held other diplo- 
matic appointments. He was a man of 
ripe scholarship. He was in every way 
fitted for the post. When an influential 
friend approached President McKinley 
on the subject, the President said: "No, 
no, Fm very sorry, but the German erfi- 
bassy has been given out to Penrose/' 
meaning by this that the appointment had 
been assigned to Senator Boies Penrose, 
of Pennsylvania, as a perquisite for some 
one of his influential followers. Mr. 
White's friends then went to Senator 
Penrose. "Yes," said Mr. Penrose; 
"White would be a good man, but Fve 
promised the place to Charlemagne 
Tower." After some further question- 
ing it came out that Mr. Tower wished 
for the embassy to Berlin because it 
would give him a very conspicuous social 
place and would enable him to make a 
spectacular display of his great wealth. 
But Mr. White's friends were nothing if 
not diplomatic. "Oh," said they, "if he is 
after social prestige he ought to take the 
Austrian mission, for the Court of Aus- 
tria is the most aristocratic one in Eu- 
rope. Berlin is only a mushroom affair 
beside it. Vienna's the only place where 
you can find people with fourteen quar- 

"Is that so?" asked Mr. Penrose, much 
surprised. "Well, well, I never knew 
about that. Just let me look into the mat- 
ter a bit." A few days later, word was 
received by Mr. White's friends that Mr. 
Tower would take the Austrian em- 
bassy, and that Mr. White could go to 
Berlin after all. This arrangement was 
then made. Mr. Tower went to Vienna, 
and Mr. White to Berlin. At the end of 

1 f— 



. " '^Ja 

i of Louis X 111 



of a second-rate apartment house. But 
an Ambassador is a rather splendid offi- 
cial. He is the personal representative of 
the sovereign who appoints him ; or, if he 
represents a republic, he is the repre- 
sentative of the majesty of the State. All 
doors are open to him, and his own doors 
must be open to very many. He can de- 
mand and receive at any time a personal 
interview with the head of the nation to 
which he is accredited. Obviously, an 
Ambassador ought to receive from his 
country not only an official residence, but 
a very large income, in order to maintain 
at least a dignified and stately official hos- 
pitality. Our country is the richest in 
the world, and it should not be niggardly. 
Especially should it not bar its highest 
diplomatic positions to men of distinction 
merely because they have not large pri- 
vate fortunes. On the other hand, if they 
have large private fortunes they should 
not be expected to diminish these for- 

two years, Mr. Tower was moved up to 
the Russian embassy (in 1899), and only 
on Mr. White's retirement did he appear 
at the German capital as ambassador. 
He has entertained there most mag- 
nificently. He is reported to have spent 
at least $150,000 a year in excess of his 
official salary. Mrs. Tower is said to 
have been called by the Kaiser "the 
Moltke of Berlin society." The Towers 
have not been without their press agents. 
They have indeed controlled many of the 
unseen wires which ramify in all direc- 
tions. The most important of these wires 
is thought to be that which runs through 
the Berlin correspondent of the New 
York Times, who happens also to be the 
correspondent of the London Times. In 
all this there is food for thought. 
Perhaps the moral of the whole affair 
is the one which has been frequently 
drawn of late. A Minister-Plenipoten- 
tiary is not a very important diplomatic 
person. He can live in a simple house 
or in a hotel, or even, as the late J. B. 
Stallo did when Minister to Italy, in a 
cheap flat somewhere up under the roof 

Copyright. 1908, by Browi 


tunes in order to maintain in social mat- 
ters the prestige of the United States. It 
is said that Mr. Whitelaw Reid, since he 
has been Ambassador to Great Britain, 
has spent $250,000 every year in lavish 
entertainments. This is, of course, ex- 
cessive from any point of view. High 
character and an international reputation 
are quite sufficient to bring honour to 
our country without such lavish spend- 
ing. But there is no doubt that Bayard 
Taylor and Mr. I-owell, for example, 
would have found life easier had their 
diplomatic emoluments been in some way 
commensurate with the nature of the 
offices which they held abroad. One of 
the most pathetic incidents in our unwrit- 
ten diplomatic history has to do with the 
late Senator George F. Hoar, of Massa- 
chusetts. Senator Hoar was a most ac- 
complished gentleman, a scholar, and one 
who was worthy of any station. During 
President McKinley's administration, the 
Embassy to Great Britain was offered to 
Mr. Hoar. It would have been the 
crowning honour of a long and noble life. 
He was very anxious to accept it. But, 
after sitting down and figuring very care- 
fully, he felt himself obliged to give up 
that which would have been a source of 

infinite gratification to him. His private 
means were not sufficient to allow his ac- 
ceptance of the Embassy. The necessity 
was a very bitter one to him ; but he re- 
fused the offer and remained in the Sen- 
ate, saving nothing of his disappointment. 

It is not merely Mr. Tower and Mr. 
Hill and the Kaiser and President Roose- 
velt who have suffered 
Persona Grata somewhat in the course 
and Persona of this affair. The Latin 
non Grata language has incidentally 

received a mauling. 
Thus the Evening Post, in an editorial, 
artlessly unsexed Dr. Hill by casually ob- 
serving that perhaps he was not grata. 
On the other hand, the pundits of the 
New York Sun in groping for the nega- 
tive of the diplomatic phrase persona 
grata, in felicitously hit upon the expres- 
sion persona ingrata. Now Dr. Hill may 
or may nut have been an "acceptable per- 
son" to the German Kaiser, but to speak 
of him as "a thankless person" is surely 
not in accordance with the facts, any 
more than the phrase is in accordance 
with the canons of Latiuity. And yet 
both the Post and the jThii are supposed 
to know things! 


Emily Post, the author of Woven in 
the Tapestry, is the daughter of the late 
Bruce Price, who, until 
_ .. his death, was one of our 

i"y most conspicuous archi- 

tects. The little volume, 
which is a model of nice 
book ma king, is appropriately dedicated 
by the author to her father. The tales 
are really prose fancies — pastels — 
sketches, call them what you will, and 
the background is always the same 
elusive, mysterious country of Arteria, 
where romance is still extant, and where 
the filmy and somewhat allegorical char- 
acters move about as in a pleasant but 
shadowy dream. Mrs. Post's first vol- 
ume. The Flight of a Moth, was pub- 
lished some half dozen years ago, and 
was so radically different from this, in 
treatment and in point of view, that it is 
difficult to believe that the two books 
have emanated from the same pen. 

About the time that the news of the 
death of Carl Ewald reached this coun- 
try, that Danish writer, 
"tv. riM some of whose short 

the Old stories had already been 

Koom turned into English, was 

being further introduced 
to American readers by The Old Room, 

very admirably translated by Alexander 
Teixeira de Mattos, and published from 
the press of Messrs. Charles Scribner's 
Sons. The Old Room consists of two 
parts, and from the translator's foreword 
we learn that these parts are published 
separately in Denmark, and that Part I, 
here called "Cordt," was first issued 
anonymously, with a preface intended to 
convey the idea that the work had been 
written by the heroine of the story. 
When Part II appeared, under the title of 
"Cordt's Son," in which Fru Adelheid has 
returned to the old house and the old 
room, Carl Ewald suppressed this pref- 
ace. Mr. de Mattos has restored it. He 
acknowledges an indebtedness to Mr. Os- 
man Edwards for the metrical transla- 
tion of the half-dozen tjuaint songs which 
play a part in the story. 

A reader of more candour than liter- 
ary perception the other day laid aside 
The Old Room with the puzzled query as 
to whether "those Scandinavian women 
were all stark mad, or only the authors 
who wrote about them?" While con- 
fessing to a modified sympathy with 
this crude point of view, we wish to 
say that if one is strongly addicted to Ib- 
sen, and delights in allopathic doses of the 
dismal, The Old Room may be very heart- 


ily endorsed. For what Carl Ewald 
started out to do has been very admirably 
done. The book is a study of domestic 
tragedy, complicated by the strange 
moods of an abnormal man and a still 
more abnormal woman. Over all hovers 
the furtive shadow of that madness which 
gives to the story its dreadful climax. 
The Old Room is a secret chamber which 
sturdy ancestors consecrated as the altar 
of the family and the home. 

It is placed so strangely in the house that it 
seems to form no part of it. The life of every 
day passes outside it ; and even when the 
whole house is lighted up and the horses paw 
the ground in the gateway and glasses clink 
and music sounds in the great drawing-room, 
the door of the room remains constantly closed. 

No one has ever crossed the threshold but 
the owner of the house and his wife and the 
oldest servant in their employ. 

For Ihe room is the soul of the house and 
its tradition and its secret chamber. 

A Ducal 

.f Folks Back Hem, 

Duke Litta-Visconti-Arese, of Casale 
Litta, Lombardy, Italy, whose novel, The 
Soul of a Priest, is re- 
viewed elsewhere in this 
issue, is a scion of the 
ancient family of the 
Visconti. About eight 
years ago he settled down in the ancient 
castle of his ancestors, having till then 
travelled abroad and had frequent inter- 
course with the chief leaders of German 
Socialism, especially Bebel and Von Wol- 
mar, by whom he was converted to So- 
cialism. On his return home the Duke 
decided to put his new ideas into prac- 
tice. He accordingly withdrew all the 
large estate surrounding his mansion 
from its former tenants, and completely 
gave it up for cultivation to 137 families 
of his peasants, who formed an agricul- 
tural colony. 

The colony has done so well, indeed, 
that when the famous Humanitarian So- 
ciety of Milan — which is really a Social- 
istic institution— sent representatives to 
make inquiry into the Condition of the 
peasants all over Italy, they declared that 
the richest peasants in the country were 
those on the Duke Litta's estate. 



Everything went well with this inter- 
esting experiment until a little more than 
a year ago, when as a result of a split 
in the Socialist party, there arose a 
group known as the Syndacallists — a sort 
of Anarchist organisation — who began a 
violent campaign against all landlords. 
The Duke Litta came in for his share of 
the attack, and the good relations which 
had existed between him and his peasants 
were for a time disturbed. The peasants 
all over Lombardy began to ask for bet- 
ter terms, and strikes occurred ; but when 
those on the estate of Casali-Litta found 
that under the new programme they 
would obtain only about a fourth of what 
the Duke had already conceded they 
ceased agitating. The experiment has 
cost the Diikc Litta-Visconti-Arese some- 
thing like $10,000 a year; but he is 
satisfied with, and proud of, the re- 
sults to the peasants financially, physi- 
cally, and morally. As an indication of 
their improved condition, the Duke Litta 
mentioned that contrarv to the custom of 


the Italian peasants, who do not eat meat, 
the people on his estate have meat, not 
once or twice, but three times a week, 
"and that is one of the things," he added, 
of which I am most proud ; that they can 
afford meat so often." The Duke has al- 
ready published several successful novels 
in Italian, but The Soul of a Priest is his 
first book in English. His wife is an 
American woman. 

In these days, when every episode or 
contrivance of plot of the average novel 
may be traced back to 
some earlier novel, a 
"The Schemers" book that really intro- 
duces something quite 
new must be singled out 
for particular notice. That is a very 
good reason for calling attention to The 
Schemers, by D. Torbett. This little vol- 
ume is frankly designed to provide an 
hour's light entertainment. It tells of a 
quite preposterous cad, of a society 
widow unwilling to part with her youth. 
of that widow's attractive daughter, and 
of the daughter's loyal but impoverished 
suitor. The means adopted by James 
Baldwin to bring about the undoing of 
Bertram Went worth-Went worth, and 
the dilemma of Mrs. Van Aggan after 
the untimely death of the beauty doctor 
may violate the laws of probability, but 
they are certainly new and certainly 


■ling. Prodigal 

Two books coming from the same pub- 
lisher and reaching our office about the 

same time are Mr. James 
"The Chorus Forbes's The Chorus 
Lady" and Lady in the form of a 

"Go To It" novel, and George V. 

Hobart's Go To It, 
which is number twelve in the series of 
John Henry Books. This may be re- 
garded as the fourth incarnation of The 
Chorus Lady. Written originally as a 
short sketch for a magazine it attracted 
the attention of Miss Rose Stahl, and at 
her suggestion was turned into a one-act 
play by the author. In this form it 
proved so successful that a four-act 
drama was built up about the dressing- 
room scene. Finally this four-act drama 
was made into the novel which has just 
come from the press. While as a general 
rule the "'novelised" play is stilted and 
artificial, The Chorus Lady seems to be 
very good of its kind. No one who has 
ever seen and enjoyed Mr. Forbes's play 

will be ungrateful for this opportunity of 
a more lasting acquaintance with the 
whole-souled, generous Patricia O'Brien. 

There is no need of saying anything in 
particular about Go To It. If you have 
read and enjoyed the other books in the 
series, it is quite certain that this latest 
volume will not prove disappointing. In- 
deed it is doubtful if any of the former 
books contained a chapter better than 
the one with which Go To It opens. 
Mr. Hobart's next effort is to be of a 
"Dinkenspielian" nature. 

A rather striking little volume coming 
from the Brentano press is Old Buildings 

of New York City, which 
The contains some text and 

Passing some forty or fifty pic- 

New York tures of various public 

buildings and private 
residences. Interesting as this book now 


EARLY a century has 
elapsed since Mr. Wash- 
ington Irving began the 
American literary in- 
vasion of Europe, and 
[convinced the somewhat 
reluctant Londoners that 
it was possible for one from the lost col- 
onies over seas to write the English lan- 
guage with distinction and style, and to 
spin tales of rural England with a grace 
and insight surpassed by none of his 
British contemporaries. And from Eng- 
land Mr. Irving soon crossed the channel 
to France, left his mark on Paris and on 
various little cities of the provinces, and 
finally proceeded southward to Spain, to 
write books about Granada and the Al- 
hambra that have proved more enduring 
than the books of Iberian theme of any 
other writer of the English tongue. A few 
years after Irving, James Fenimore 
Cooper turned from the Neutral Ground 
of Westchester County and the lake re- 
gion of Central New York, to find in- 
spiration in Old World scenes. He set 

foot on Spanish soil in Mercedes of Cas- 
tile. He loitered about the lagoons of 
Venice in Bravo. In The Mystery of 
Marie Roget, "The Purloined Letter" 
and "The Murders of the Rue Morgue," 
a third American invader, Edgar Allan 
Poe, took Paris for a background, and 
in some lovely corner of rural France 
might be found the mysterious maison de 
santl, which was the scene of "The Sys- 
tem of Dr. Feather and Professor Tarr." 
The above map, drawn hy Mr. Paul 
Wilstach for the purpose of showing how 
far Europe has been invaded by Ameri- 
can writers of fiction, is unquestionably, 
in its present state, far from complete. 
It very obviously does not pretend to any 
literary standard, and when the name of 
a writer of the quality of Sylvanus Cobb 
appears in the centre of a vast Russian 
waste, it is certain that the collaboration 
of a score of novel-reading heads would 
show a continent of vastly denser popu- 
lation. At a glance the present writer 
can offer two or three suggestions. For 
example, Spain is apportioned to Cooper 



and Irving. But does not Mr. F. Marion 
Crawford deserve a share of territory for 
In the Palace of the King? Mr. George 
Ade should be represented in Turkey for 
The Slim Princess, and there are half a 
dozen more hard-working men and 
women of letters (not all Indianians) 
whose names should dot that vague re- 
gion in the shadow of the Balkans where 
petty kingdoms abound in swordplay, 
moat-swimming, and intrigue, and answer 
to such imposing names as Ruritania, 
Danubia, Illyria and Ossia. 

However, all this is in a measure 
hypercritical. Mr. Wilstach's map is 
frankly open to amendment, and even if 
it contained the name of every American 
who had made use of a European back- 
ground in fiction, it would be final only 
for the moment. The tide of American 
invasion is rising with every publishing 
season. Beginning with westerly Europe, 
we find in Ireland the names of Wiggin 
and Templeton. The "Penelope" stories 
of the former are well enough known, 
but how many readers are familiar with 
Hermine Templeton's Darby O'Gili? 
Even more desolate in appearance is Scot- 
land, with Mrs. Riggs as the only rep- 
resentative of our fiction, although Miss 
Edna Kenton in What Manner of Man 
wrote very vividly of the islands to the 
north. With England, naturally it is a 
different matter. In and about London 
we have Henry James for various books ; 
R. H. Davis for "The Lion and the L T nt- 
corn." "His Bad Angel" and "In the 
Fog"; Winston Churchill for certain 
chapters of Richard Carvel; Mrs. 
Frances Hodgson Burnett for The Lady 
of Quality; Mrs. Atherton for American 
Wires and English Husbands; Charles 
Major for When Knighthood Was in 
Flower; and Harriet Beecher Stow f e for 
The Minister's Wooing. In the west of 
England Mr. Booth Tarkington's name is 
placed at Bath, presumably for Monsieur 
Beaucaire. Not far away is Mrs. Bur- 
nett, for Little Lord Fauntleroy. To the 
extreme north, in Westmoreland. Mr. 
Vaughan Kester appears for John o' 
Jamestown. Hard by, in Lancashire, are 
the scenes of Mrs. Burnett's Lass o' 
Loivries and Hazvorth, and to the same 
writer is apportioned Surrey for A Fair 
Barbarian. Other American claimants 

for various parts of rural England are 
Mark Twain {A Yankee at King 
Arthur's Court) ; Charles Major {Dor- 
othy Vernon of Haddon hi all) ; Anne 
Warner {Uncle John); Amclie Rives 
(Athelzvold) ; Kate Douglas Wiggin {A 
Cathedral Courtship) ; and Lloyd Os- 
bourne, for some of the stories in Love 
the Fiddler, for The Adventurer, and for 
Babv Bullet. The name of Marion Craw- 
ford, the most cosmopolitan of all Ameri- 
can novelists, is not on the map of Eng- 
land. He should have been there, 
somewhere, for The Talc of a Lonely 

France, like England, presents a well- 
populated appearance, although there is 
a broad region to the southwest which 
seems to offer the opportunity for the 
blazing of the American trail. The 
grouping of names about Paris is dense, 
and apparently had there been more 
space, it would have been possible to have 
included half a dozen more. The con- 
gested belt of Europe runs in a straight 
line from northwest to southeast, begin- 
ning at London, through Paris, then 
across Switzerland and the Riviera, and 
down the Italian leg. But the list will 
speak for itself. 


K. D. Wiggin (Penelope). 
Hermine Templeton (Darby O'Gill). 

K. D. Wiggin (Penelope). 


Mark Twain (A Yankee 
Arthur's Court). 



H. B. Stowe (The Minister's Wooing). 
Charles Major (When Knighthood Was 

in Flower). 
R. H. Davis (The Lion and the Unicorn, 

His Bad Angel, In the Fog). 
Lloyd Osbourne (The Adventurer). 
F. H. Burnett (The Lady of Quality, 

The Shuttle). 

in King 




Booth Tarkington (Monsieur Beaucaire). 


Charles Major (Dorothy Vernon of 

V. Kester (John o' Jamestown). 

West England 
F. H. Burnett (Little Lord Fauntleroy). 


F. H. Burnett (Lass o' Lowrie's, Haw- 


F. H. Burnett ( A Fair Barbarian). 


Washington Irving (The Sketch Book, 

Bracebridge Hall). 
Marion Crawford (The Tale of a Lonely 

Anne Warner (Seeing England with 

Uncle John). 
Amelie Rives (Athelwold). 
Lloyd Osbourne (Baby Bullet). 



E. A. Poe (The Murders of the Rue 
Morgue, The Purloined Letter, The 
Mystery of Marie Roget). 

B. Tarkington (The Beautiful Lady). 

R. W. Chambers (The Red Republic). 

T. R. Sullivan (Tom Sylvester). 

B. W. Howard (Aulnay Tower). 

G. W. Carryl (Zut and Other Stories). 
C Wells (Patty in Paris). 

O. Johnson (In the Name of Liberty). 

Julia Margrudcr (The Princess Sonia). 

Bertha Runklc (The Helmet of Na- 

M. R. S. Andrews (Vive TEmpereur). 

Weir Mitchell (The Adventures of Fran- 

B. E. Stevenson (At Odds with the 

Breton Coast 
Blanche W. Howard (Guenn). 

Burnett (Short Stories). 


Marv H. Catherwood (Story of Jean 


Southern France 

T. A. Sauvier (An Embassy to Pro- 


Anne Warner (Seeing France with 
Uncle John). 


Marion Crawford ( Saracinesca, St. 

Ilario, Don Orsino, A Roman 

Singer, Pietro Ghisleri). 
Henry James (Daisy Miller, Roderick 

N. Hawthorne (The Marble Faun). 
W. W. Story (Fianetta). 
B. Tarkington (His Own People). 
W. S. Davis (A Friend of Caesar). 
Irving Bacheller (Vergilius). 
Joaquin Miller (The One Fair Woman). 
Margaret Sherwood (Daphne). 


M. Crawford (Marietta). 

J. F. Cooper (Bravo). 

F. H. Smith (Gondola Days). 


D. Osborne (The Angels of Messer 


L. C. Hale (A Motor Car Divorce). 

H. B. Fuller (The Chevalier of Pensieri- 

H. B. Stowe (Agnes of Sorrento). 


M. Crawford (Casa Braccio, Taquisara, 


W. Irving (Legends of the Alhambra). 
M. Crawford (In the Palace of the 

T. F. Cooper (Mercedes of Castile). 


H. James (Daisy Miller). 

H. B. Fuller (Chatelaine of La Trinite). 


A. C. Gnnter (Mr. Barnes of New 


G. B. McCutcheon (Castle Craney- 
crow) . 


M. M. Dodge (Hans Brinker). 
W. D. Howells (The Kentons). 

B. E. Stevenson (An Affair of State). 

H. \V. Longfellow (Hyperion). 
F. M. Crawford (Greifenstein, A Cig- 
arette Maker's Romance). 
R. H. Davis- (The Princess Aline). 

F. M. Crawford (The Witch of Prague). 

II. E. Scudder (Viking Bodleys). 

H. H. Boyesen (Gunnar, Modern Vi- 
Paul du Chaillu (Ivar the Viking). 

Paul Harboe (The Son of Magnus). 


F. M. Crawford (Paul Patoff). 
A. C. Gunter (That Frenchman). 
R. H. Savage (My Official Wife). 

S. Cobb (The Gunmaker of Moscow). 


G. B. McCutcheon (Graustark, Beverly 

of Graustark). 
H. McGrath (The Puppet frown). 

E. D. Miller (The Prince Goes Fishing). 

Lew Wallace (The Prince of India). 

F. M. Crawford (Aretlnisa, Paul 

George Adc (The Slim Princess). 
Kenneth Brown (The First Secretary). 
Brander Matthews (The I-ast Meeting). 

R. H. Davis (The Princess Aline). 
Anna B. Dodd (On the Knees of the 

Although not on European soil, Tan- 
gier is so close to Gibraltar that no one is 
likely to resent the invasion of the map 
by that little point of Africa in the ex- 
treme southwest. This territory has been 
apportioned to Paul Leicester Ford for 
. certain chapters of The Story of an Un- 
told Love, and to Richard Harding Davis 
for The Exiles and The King's Jackal. 
Arthur Bart left Maurice 



Mr. Bernard Shaw in "The Philanderer" railed at the English club woman. 
In this attitude he was far from being alone. Yet even the most hardened of 
masculine scoffers must be a little appalled in contemplation of the Lyceum, 
which may properly be termed the Greatest Women's Club in the World. This 
organisation of professional women has been in existence only five years. It 
has to-day a membership in London of several thousand and a club house that 
in many respects is probably unequalled anywhere. Branches of the club are 
to be founded in Germany, France, Italy, Belgium, Spain and Holland and 
probably in the United States. Thus the Lyceum is rapidly becoming an inter- 
national institution, and its members all over the world will soon be enjoying 
the privileges of a club house in every capital in Europe. 

| HE Woman's Club 
i struck down long and 
1 tenacious roots a good 
I many years ago, and has 
'; undergone wild diver- 
Igencies and more sober 
3 development, but it is 
only recently that all its hazy but unques- 
tionably high and practical ideals have 
become crystallised — and, naturally 
enough, in the city that stands at the apex 
of civilisation to-day. The Lyceum Club 
of London, "An Association of the 
Women of Culture in all Countries," 
goes so much farther than any other 
woman's club had ever dreamed of going 
that one can hardly call it even the real- 
isation of an ideal; unless, to be sure all 
its complexities really lurked in the brain 
of its organiser. Miss Constance Smed- 
ley. Certainly they have never given 
sign of existing elsewhere. As the visi- 
tor walks over the great building devoted 
to its use she — even he — constantly ex- 
claims: '"This is the real thing at last!" 
Ten to one they affirm complacently, 
"This is indeed the realisation of the 
ideal," but if they are honest they admit 
later that they never cherished any such 
ideal until it was born of the accom- 
plished fact. At all events it is impossi- 
ble to imagine how this remarkable Club 
could be improved, how club develop- 
ment could further go. In the first place 
it looks like, has the atmosphere of, the 

man's club, and this I will venture to say 
no other woman's club on earth can boast. 
I have been the .guest and temporary 
member of more women's clubs than I 
can pretend to remember, but they have 
never seemed to me anything more than 
private hotels. At my own, the Ladies' 
Athena: um, 1 always feel as if I were en- 
tering a private house, lent for the oc- 
casion, and those who take their tea or 
write their notes there could quite as well 
do either at home. I only belong because 
people in London must be asked to tea, 
and for some occult reason prefer to be 
asked to a club, particularly travelling 
Americans. Otherwise, I never put my 
foot inside the door. 

But there is no such atmosphere about 
the Lyceum. It occupies a very large 
building in the heart of Piccadilly, and it 
was used for many years by a club of 
men. The rent is $25,000 a year besides 
the rates and taxes, so that its size and 
style may be imagined. The furnishings 
of many of the rooms — "lounge," or 
smoking-room, reading and writing-room, 
library, billiard-room — were taken over 
with the lease. They are of solid dark 
wood and brown leather, attractively 
shabby, and patently made for the sex 
that understands comfort far better than 
strenuous woman ever did until she made 
acquaintance with the deep sofas and 
chairs of the Lyceum. Besides the rooms 
I have enumerated there are dining- 


rooms, exhibition rooms, a drawing- 
room, a hairdressing-room, and more 
than thirty bedrooms. 

The Lounge is a large room on the 
ground floor with great windows facing 
the traffic of Piccadilly and the beautiful 
Green Park beyond. Here the members 
smoke and chat and entertain their guests 
after dinner or luncheon, although the 
drawing-room above is equally attractive 
to those that do not smoke. In the writ- 
ing-room — always crowded — no talking 
is permitted, nor, for that matter, in the 
library. But there is an atmosphere of 
very great life about the other rooms, 
particularly the large dining-room, which 
seats several hundred people. Richard 
Whiteing, who spoke one night when I 
dined there, asserted that the Lyceum 
was not only an improvement upon all 
the other women's clubs, but upon any 
man's club of which he knew anything. 
He never entered it without being pre- 
pared for a surprise, or receiving the im- 
pression that something was "going on." 

This is the impression that one receives 
instantly — that something is going on. 
People are not merely paying dues that 
they may have a place to drink a cup of 
tea or write a note, nor even have a "per- 
manent address." From the big busy 
bureau in the entrance hall to the top of 
the house there is movement, life, a new 
and intensely modern atmosphere; and 
the women are the most alert and intelli- 
gent looking I have ever seen banded to- 
gether. Even when smokine their after 
luncheon cigarettes in the Lounge, and 
settled in the depths of the comfortable 
chairs, they look as if their minds were 
poised between two flights. Many, it 
may be remarked, sit on the edge of the 
chairs ; which suggests that neither men- 
tally nor physically has woman yet ac- 
quired the masculine art of relaxation. 
Some may have escaped from the tyr- 
anny of the corset, but few clever 
women have learned the art of taking the 
whalebones out of their minds. 

For my part I do not see how the writ- 
ers of books — the seasoned hand — can 
stand it. After being shut up with a book 
for six or eight months it seems to me 
natural to seek an atmosphere either with 
more repose or distracting in ways that 
banish the memory of shop. For the be- 

ginners in book-making, and for the pur- 
suants of every other art and craft, noth- 
ing could be more admirable and inspir- 
ing than this Lyceum Club of London. 

For it is above all things practical, that 
is to say, it is helpful. It was organised 
primarily that women workers should 
have a focus from which they could not 
only launch their work more successfully, 
but receive advice and assistance from 
the bureau and its advisorv boards. 
There is a large well-lighted room for 
exhibition of the various crafts followed 
by members. Glass cases can be rented 
at a reasonable figure and outsiders are 
welcome to come and buy ; there is always 
some one in attendance. One day when I 
was there I examined some beautifully 
wrought jewelry of silver and semi- 
precious stones, specimens of bookbind- 
ing, of which Cobden Saunderson would 
not be ashamed, illuminations, stamped 
leather and carved wood. The most in- 
teresting exhibit was a case full of tex- 
tiles from the "Windermere Industry," 
founded by one of the members, all hand- 
woven and as artistic as practical. And 
not in a single instance was there a trace 
of the amateur in these displays. It was 
an exhibition of professionals, every bit 
of it. 

Then there is an art gallery in which 
pictures of members are hung several 
times a year, but not — as is the case of all 
other exhibits, even the publications — un- 
til they have been passed upon by a com- 
mittee. The standard of the Lvceum is 
excessively high and the members of the 
various Advisory Boards have no inten- 
tion that it shall be lowered, either 
through favouritism or carelessness. If 
the members prefer to exhibit at any of 
the more public galleries of London they 
are sure that their achievements will be 
made known to the rest of the Club — 
which comprises some twenty-five hun- 
dred members — through the medium of 
the monthly journal, called, after its 
parent, "The Lyceum." This also re- 
cords the doings of its literary folk in all 
parts of the world, the club happenings 
of the month, and the speeches, verbatim 
imde at the weekly dinners. 

Nothing will give a broader hint of the 
scope of the Club's more practical side 
than the list of its Advisory Boards: 



Authors; Journalists; Painters and 
Sculptors; Arts and Crafts; Music; Uni- 
versities; Public Service; International; 
Social. The work of these boards is car- 
ried out through the Bureau, which has a 
large staff of secretaries, and to w r hich a 
member may at any time apply for ad- 

Most of the Boards explain them- 
selves, but a word may be said about 
others. The object of the Public Ser- 
vice Board is to "get together a bureau 
of the best information on all public 
w r ork open to women." "To bring to- 

all social functions which they may un- 
dertake. It organises the weekly house 
dinners, which are a great feature in the 
Club life, and at which distinguished rep- 
resentatives of the arts and sciences are 
entertained, as well as the various em- 
bassies and legations representing their 
respective nations, and in other direc- 
tions seeks to benefit and encourage the 
social life of the Club." I will speak of 
the International Board in connection 
with the Circles. The Music Board not 
only gives a series of extremely high- 
class musicales during the season, at 




On~Ar>u6w /gL«^ JL£ ~. U+4<£5ZIZ^*\ 7.30 for 8 p.m. 
( fKiU^ 

in honour 

in the Chair), 



128. Piccadilly, London. W. 

gether all the workers in various 
branches of State service, for mutual 
conferences/' "To give expert and relia- 
ble information relating to social ques- 
tions. " "From time to time to issue 
papers by experts on subjects particu- 
larly connected with woman's work, and 
to circulate these at as low a price and 
as widely as possible." "To seek to im- 
prove the condition of woman workers." 
There is a debating society in connection 
with this Board. 

The Social Advisory Board consists of 
members who are not professionally em- 
ployed, and was formed "to assist and 
supplement the efforts of the other 
Boards in bringing to a successful issue 

which original compositions are often 
rendered, but entertains at dinner such 
distinguished musicians as happen to visit 
London. Each Board in fact has its din- 
ner nights, upon which they entertain 
men and women eminent in the depart- 
ments they represent. The only draw- 
back to these delightful occasions is that 
the distinguished is expected to make a 

It mav be inferred that the women 
journalists derive more comfort as well 
as benefit from this Club than the mem- 
bers of almost any other department. 
They are so numerous in London, so 
hard worked, they live so far from all 
centres, that it must be not only a con- 

[ ^3^ 


• * 


1 5-J * 





venience but a delight to have this great 
luxurious animated Club, with its quiet 
corners, to resort to at all hours ; where 
they can get a good cheap lunch, a warm 
corner, and, when demanded, advice and 
sympathy. It is only fair to say that this 
admirable idea of making life a little 
easier for women journalists did not 
originate in Miss Smedley's fertile brain, 
but with a small group of women less 
known to fame, who some twelve or fif- 

teen years ago started the '"Writers' 
Club" in a basement in the Strand, where 
women obliged to frequent that news- 
paper region at all hours and in all 
weathers might be able to write their 
daily task m decent comfort, dry their 
boots and get a bite to eat. This club 
still keeps to its old quarters, although 
much enlarged, and does as good a work 
as ever, but many journalists prefer to 
pay more not only for the superior at- 



tractions of the Lyceum but for the as- 
sistance its remarkable organisation af- 
fords them. 

There has never been any lack of en- 
terprise about the London Woman Jour- 
nalist. It was in 1899 I think that the 
Duchess of Sutherland lent the Society of 
Women Journalists Stafford House for 
an evening entertainment. I do not be- 
long to the organisation, but I was in- 
vited, and was standing on the upper 
floor looking over the railing at the su- 

perb company — which included not only 
representatives of every art and profes- 
sion, ambassadors, and cabinet ministers, 
but many of the smartest and most 
beautiful women in London — when 
Richard Whiteing joined me. "Well," 
he said, "what do you think of this?" {I 
was recently come to London.) "The So- 
ciety of Women Journalists is only four 
years old. and they are at Stafford House 
already !" 

Such of its members as belong to the 





Lyceum show no signs of deterioration. 
The}' not only give a great annual dinner 
but an informal dinner every Thursday 
evening, where no doubt the conversation 
is well worth listening to, and many a 
newcomer receives inspiration and help. 
Not that tyros in any department are 
admitted to membership in the Lyceum. 
A horde of ambitious amateurs would 
weaken it; women must win their spurs 
before their applications for membership 

will be considered. To be eligible one 
must have published a book, engaged 
professionally in journalism, hung a pic- 
ture, taken a degree at a University — and 
so it goes. The only exception is in 
favour of the daughters of distinguished 
men, who, no doubt, are expected to 
make themselves useful on the Social 
Board or in one of the Circles. It may 
be mentioned here that the Club has re- 
cently been opened to Alpine Climbers, 

, 1 



i i i 

■ 1 1 

it *" 





25 8 


that they may have a place of rendezvous 
in London — women climbers, of course; 
no men belong to the Club. 

After the Advisory Boards the most 
notable and useful feature is the Circles. 
"Members who are interested either by 
birth, residence or connections with any 
other country are associated together to 
promote intercourse and good fellowship 
with their sister members in that coun- 
try, to render such assistance to them as 
they can in furthering their interests, and 
to keep memhers of the Circle in touch 
with modern literature, art and music of 
the country from which the Circle takes 
its name." These names are as follows: 
Scotland: Wales; U. S. A.; South 
Africa: Australia: France: Germany: 
Italy: Sclavonic: Spain: Sweden: Hol- 
land; Oriental. Women of all nationali- 
ties, possessing the necessary qualifica- 
tions, are welcome to membership, and if 
far away they can have the benefit, by 
correspondence, of the Advisory Boards; 
or when visiting London of the hospital- 
ity of the Club. Each circle has its reg- 
ular day for meeting, and the lecture is 
preceded and followed bv a social tea. 

These gatherings are held in the large 
dining-room. There are also luncheon 
and dinner meetings, followed by a re- 
ception, at which any newcomer or old 
can meet whom she wishes. I attended a 
meeting of the American Circle, and not 
only met many interesting American 
women whom I might not otherwise have 
seen, but listened to a delightful address 
by an Englishman on Harold Frederic, 
whose work is far better appreciated by 
the thoughtful British public than by that 
of his native land, tuned to a lighter note. 
The International Advisory Board was 
a natural outgrowth of these Circles. 
numbering as they do many women of 
many languages, and one of the avowed 
purposes of the Club being to become an 
important power for the promotion 
of peace and good will among nations. 
The International Board is representa- 
tive of all the Circles, its membership 
polyglot. It corresponds with a provin- 
cial committee in each country, which 
represents the various sections to which 
Advisory Boards have been allotted, and 
which will act as the representatives of 
the Executive Committee in recommend- 


ing the election of applicants for mem- 
bership in that country. Such a club and 
such a Board would never escape the 
eagle eye of William of Germany. In 
•ecember, 1905, at a dinner given in hon- 
our of the German members of the Club 
and attended by some of the most em- 
inent men and women in London, Count 
Mettemich, the German Ambassador, 
was present by direct order of His Im- 
perial Majesty. Of course he came with 
a message of good will, from one nation 
to the other, and i f there was nothing very 
soul-stirring in his remarks, there could 
be no doubt that the Club had much rea- 
son to be very proud of itself. 

So far, only two branches of this re- 
markable Club have sprung from the 
parent trunk. In November, 1905, a 
clubhouse was opened in the Potsdam- 
erstrasse, Berlin. This also has exhibi- 
tion and bedrooms for resident members, 
and is at the service of visiting English 
members without further subscription. 
After much discouragement and petty 
annoyance, not surprising to any one who 
has ever lived in Paris. Miss Alice Will- 
iams — whose father in connection with 

Mr. Smedley financed the Club — opened 
the branch in the French capital on the 
4th of last December. The charming 
hotel they have rented in the heart of the 
city is as French as the parent is solid 
and British. The dining-room is dec- 
orated with green trellis work and small 
daintily appointed tables. The double 
salons — to be used also for exhibitions — 
are equally light and bright, and there are 
eight bedrooms, besides a lounge and 
library. There were three hundred mem- 
bers on the day of opening, the greater 
number French, and many have come in 
since. The interest of fashionable Paris 
upon this occasion might cause some sur- 
prise unless one remembered that La 
Feministc agitates all circles. 

It is (he intention of the Club to have, 
in time, a branch house in all capitals, 
and I fancy that its next descent will be 
upon Now York. If so, serious New 
York women will have cause for much 
self-gratulation. Meanwhile there are 
many American names enrolled at head- 
quarters, and on the American Commit- 
tee such representative names as Kate 
Douglas Wiggin, Mary Wilkins, Mrs. 

»• ''7" t.'l~'7f *«"=»■ 






Burnett, Elizabeth Jordan, Elizabeth 
Marbury, Julia Ward Howe, Sara 

Ome Jewett, and thirty-three others 
equally honourable if less known to 

Whether or not it can be asserted that 
the Lyceum Club has realised an ideal, it 
can truthfully be said to represent one, 
and no one who knows aught of it but 
wishes it well. 


I N a restaurant in an ob- 
jscure New England city 

II was sitting the other 
1 day with a man who was 
ibred upon the Pacific 
I slope. Out of its intei- 

jjlectual confusions, its 

wrinkled sophistications and its juvenil- 
ities he had contrived or absorbed a man- 
ner of dress and a philosophy. In them- 
selves both were acceptable. The dress 
was becoming to him and would upon 
occasion befit any man. From his head, 
which was competently modelled by 
Nature in one of her decorative moods, 
he had removed and flung upon a chair 
a broad grey hat girdled with a leather 
strap. The collar of his flannel shirt, in 
which gleamed threads of silk, lay loosely 
about his neck of bronze. A leather 
waistcoat and a belted coat completed as 
much of his garb as was visible above 
the tablecloth. I had seen, and now im- 
agined beneath the table, a wonderful 
pair of yellow boots. They were no 
doubt gracefully disposed for the benefit 
of whoever should glance over from an- 
other table. In the pauses of his talk 
I found myself waiting for a line from 
Mr. Thomas's Arizona or, since my 
friend was tinged with literature, from 
Mr. Moody's Great Divide. Instead I 
listened to his philosophy, to narratives 
of his adventures and to explanations of 
his habits of dress. The philosophy, a 
generous socialism, which grew out of 
wholesome instincts of rebellion, had 
been trimmed to an obsolescent system ; 
and into it had been grafted scions from 
hot-house productions. The original plant 
was hardy, probably perennial ; only the 
blossoms, especially of the grafts, lacked 
perfume and the fruitage was doubtful. 

His big voice, naturally toned for the 
picturesque narratives of his experience, 
vibrated with puerilities such as may be 
found in editorials and magazine articles. 
It was as if one of liberal religious be- 
liefs should announce the innocent doc- 
trines of the late Mr. Ingersoll, with the 
emphasis appropriate to a subverting 
discovery. Yet his evident earnestness 
dismissed the suspicion that he was in- 
dulging in cant. 

My disappointment that he had no 
new ideas, except in direct accounts of 
his life, was deepened by his references 
to his dress as a badge of independence. 
He explained that he never wore a 
starched collar, and as for dress suits — 
at the luncheon hour there was none 
visible — his scorn reached through free 
space to the dark of distant wardrobes 
and made the black garments limp with 
shame. No doubt the dress suit deserves 
the treatment he gave it ; the square cut 
thing has no aesthetic right to be. But 
the seat of his trouble and my discom- 
fort was his state of mind, not in sar- 
torial preferences. 

While we were tossing easy words like 
Capital and Labour I had time to reflect 
upon the difference between us. His 
style of dress, which was unusual in this 
restaurant, did not disturb me, and no- 
body else in the room paid even curious 
attention to him. On the other hand, 
had I been in a company of this man's 
kind I should not have been allowed 
to remain unconscious of my difference 
from the temporary majority. Not all 
the millions of suits like mine throughout 
the civilised world would have rallied to 
support my loneliness. Amid a group of 
sombreros and soft collars I should have 
been reminded that the linen yoke which 



I bear day by day, tortured but un- 
ashamed, is a symbol of social servitude. 
I should have been for the time an alien 
in outlandish dress in the midst of settled 
habits. Evidently my Western friend, 
not I, was the more conventional. I was 
free because unconscious, whereas he, a 
stickler for his chosen mode of raiment, 
was captive to his own triumphant 
chariot of revolt. 

It has been often observed that the 
heresies of one age become the conven- 
tions of the next. Originality stews, 
cools down and jellifies and we find it 
labelled on the shelf. Liberal principles 
become orthodox formulae and formulae 
lose flavour. Not so frequently has "at- 
tention been called ,, to another tendency 
in human thinking — the tendency of un- 
conventionally first to recognise, then to 
admire, then to sanction itself and there- 
by become a covenant, a usage — that is, 
a conventionality. It is not surprising to 
any one who looks without too local a 
patriotism into the history of nations that 
America is a most conventional country ; 
that the Declaration of Independence was 
followed not by a tremendous human 
novelty, but by a quite ordinary society 
hostile to revolutionary ideas. There 
was no extraordinary individual depart- 
ure from century-old types until Whit- 
man and Lincoln. Emerson is conserv- 
ative and proper compared to Carlyle 
and Tolstoy. The Puritan, rebellious 
against one bigoted convention, set up 
another. Democracy, having parted 
from kingdom by old-fashioned methods 
and under slogans already stale in politi- 
cal philosophy, so reiterated its rights 
and honours that the words grew ritual- 
istic and the spirit deafened under repeti- 
tion. All this is sorrowful to contem- 
plate, but easy to understand. Much 
more baffling is the paradox, not of 
words, but of facts, that freedom itself 
became a bondage. In the defiant aban- 
don of escape liberty looked back upon 
the kingdom it had left, looked back too 
often for the patience of the gbds, and 
was turned into a pillar of stone. This 
may sound like the Saturday Review or 
the Academy, but if we have luck it will 
not in a moment. The real liberty, slowly 
coming in America, is the universal kind 
which is overtaking all society. And 

America has especially good chances of 
being overtaken, because no one of its 
conventions, not even its convention of 
freedom or its convention of money, is 
sufficiently old and solid to withstand 
the assaults of light. Freedom is ques- 
tioning itself, and so its fixity becomes 
fluid again and its motive forces, so long 
captive, are being released. 

This idea would have shocked my Pa- 
cific friend, for his hostility to almost 
every institution in America, with the 
implied contempt for several millions of 
his fellow-countrymen, could never slip 
into any corollary which might look like 
an unpatriotic proposition. My ideas 
would have disturbed him if I had been 
so tactless as to express them in the face 
of his inflexible prejudices. The egotism 
here is only rhetorical. I am merely one 
of the thousands of conventional Boston 
persons whom he affected to despise. 
Now that Boston has slipped out we may 
let it stand as the scene. Among the 
class of Bostonians particularly offensive 
to my friend, the men who proceed from 
Beacon Street to State Street at half past 
nine and from State Street to a club at 
half past four, I know several who would 
have taken my Western friend for 
granted, and I know one or two who 
would have received placidly ideas which 
he would not have understood for their 
extreme "unconventionally." 

The difference between Pacific and At- 
lantic, or between Chinese and Nor- 
wegian, convention, is not in one or an- 
other way of dressing or viewing society, 
but in the attitude of the individual 
toward his beliefs. Between silk hat and 
sombrero no choice is possible on the 
score of independence. In point of grace, 
I confess, as a silk-hatter, that the som- 
brero has the better of it. Flannel shirts 
are preferable, especially if one can 
accord the expensive silk and wool mix- 
ture. But as to independence, the test is 
this : He who wears his silk hat and keeps 
his thoughts either above or below it is 
less conventional than he who flaunts a 
sombrero in conscious pride of revolt. 
The truly unconventional man is one who, 
on a journey, losing his hat box, goes to 
an evening party serenely wearing his 
travelling cap. A brave example of un- 
conventionally might be found not far 



from the conservative city of Boston in 
the person of a high thinker whose wife 
must watch him lest he go forth to his 
daily task uttering original thoughts, clad 
in sack coat and silk hat. He passes his 
days in bland unconcern as to how his 
clothes or opinions stand with regard to 
the generally accepted. The path he fol- 
lows is of his own surveying and some- 
times it is on one side of the fence which 
bounds this or that field of thought, 
sometimes it is on the other side. 

Let a man once become convinced that 
he is unconventional, the very conviction 
becomes a convention in which he is cab- 
ined and confined ; he is laced in a tailor- 
made permanence of mind no less fop- 
pish because the mode is one of revolt 
and the fashion is followed only by a 
minority. My Western friend began his 
adult life as a courageous, direct-thinking 
man. Courage he still has, but it is a 
virtue growing weak for lack of use, so 
securely is he armoured by the customs 
he has adopted. Entrenched behind the 
breastworks of impenetrable usage, he is 
safe from assault and no longer tries 
himself in hand-to-hand conflict of opin- 
ion. His degeneracy began when critics 
flattered him into the conceit that he did 
not do things according to the prevailing 
habits of the world. Straightway at the 
applause of an admiring minority his 
native independence congealed as water 
on the verge of being ice suddenly freezes 
when the containing vessel is jarred. The 
dissidence of dissent set up an ordered 
disestablishment. The liturgical Prot- 
estantism that encases him is more hostile 
to free thinking than many of the older 
organisations of belief, because it has had 
only a brief experience in disagreement, 
whereas century-old habituations are 
trained in ages of compromise. A Buddh- 
ist priest is not so difficult to treat with 
as a bigoted liberal. The old diplomat 
said it is easier to make peace with one 
enemy than with forty neutrals. There is 
no slavery so hard to disenchain as a con- 
firmed emancipation. 

This is not a defence of convention nor 
an assault upon the tamed and well- 
kempt West, nor, as will presently ap- 
pear, a subtle argument in praise of 
Boston. The juxtaposition of East and 
West is an historical accident, not an 

expression of provincial prejudice. 
Whether America be figured as a ship 
of state or an eagle with curious feath- 
ered pantalets, it behaves strangely under 
criticism. Strike it all at once, and the 
bird gathers itself for fight, or the ship 
pulls round with admirable seamanship 
and rams the enemy. But direct your 
attack at the stern, tweak the tail feathers 
of the Pacific coast, and a crow of joy 
issues from the beak, a band starts 
"Yankee Doodle" on the bows. If you 
hit it amidships, somewhere between an 
Indiana poet and a Kansas cornfield, both 
ends wag for glee. Those figures cannot 
be driven abreast. The plain English is 
that Boston takes a strange joy in derid- 
ing San Francisco and Chicago delights 
in the discomfiture of Boston. One of 
the gyves upon the wrists of thought in 
Western States is the superstition that 
the farther one travels round the world 
westward from St. Petersburg, the more 
defiant liberty one finds as the normal 
circumstance of belief. There is prob- 
ably more courageous and enlightened 
thinking in St. Petersburg and Moscow 
than in Omaha or Emporia. Yet the 
newspapers of St. Petersburg' and Mos- 
cow do not call their home cities the most 
progressive places in the world. No 
offence in the comparison, but — fancy 
Professor Milyoukov as United States 
Senator from Nevada! 

In the Revue des Deux Mondes, which 
is old, staid and exacting in its standards, 
we find luminous, startling ideas. Its 
incautious flights of mind would cause 
consternation in the office of the best 
magazine — whatever it is — in the com- 
paratively young city of Boston. A stage 
farther west we find the most cut and 
dried, unstimulating ideas in Periodicals 
of Protest, which are all alike one to the 
other and like to themselves from month 
to month. You can predict what they 
will be before your office boy takes off the 

Consider the office boy himself. If he 
is continuously insubordinate, and always 
in the same way, you know what to do 
with him. But if he is sometimes dis- 
obedient, sometimes docile, laughing, sul- 
len, good-natured, mean to the office cat, 
wayward in fancy, so honest that he 
would not steal a rubber band from your 



desk, so dishonest that he chops down 
his family tree and lays the branches one 
by one before you in the baseball season, 
then he is a Person, not a Case. You will 
threaten to throw him from the window 
and you will like him hugely. He will 
be a man. The other kind of boy will 
be a number in an institution. Chronic 
opposition in morals, manners or beliefs 
is a nuisance to society, but not a prob- 
lem. We know what to do with it, as 
we know how to pitch a periodical of 
protest into the waste-basket. It con- 
tributes nothing to the right feeling and 
valuable thought of the world. 

In Boston — this part of the discourse is 
for readers west of Springfield, Massa- 
chusetts — there is a group of persons 
who regard themselves as independent 
because they are members of an aggres- 
sive minority. On any public or ethical 
question you can find them doing busi- 
ness at their little stand. You can know 
in advance, before a question arises, what 
they will think. They will think "anti." 
Like all sects of predetermined habits, 
they are sometimes right, sometimes 
wrong, but ever consistently antagonistic. 
Their origin seems to lie in those spirited 
days when revolutionary ideas sprang 
from burning issues and gave Boston its 
brave reputation. One's father was a 
member of the Finance Commission 
which probed the economic conditions of 
the South with the pikes of John Brown, 
and one has an inherited hostility to 
whatever is powerful and prevalent, such 
as navies, administrations, national des- 
tinies, domestic and foreign. One is a 
defender of the Rights of Man, not so 
much because one loves Man as because 
of the conviction that the majority of the 
world is especially bent on taking away 
the Rights. One has a family title to 
trifling inconsistencies; one approves 
breaking any law which one does not 
like, such as a Fugitive Slave Law, but 
one disapproves lynching because lynch- 
ing is against the law. The original ob- 
jects against which grandfather exercised 
his valiant opposition have passed away. 
The habit of hostility survives and must 
find new objects. Almost anything will 
do, and hundreds of objects fall at one's 
feet in the yearly turning of events. 

So the sons and daughters of those 

who flung to the winds new banners of 
liberty now keep at full mast in all 
weathers the flag of universal objection. 
The shop of the old craftsman who 
turned out hand-made antagonism has 
developed into the department store of 
revolt. Almost everything can be found 
at the counters — pamphlets, weapons, 
hammers and all manner of dry goods 
and notions. There are extensive repair 
departments where common beliefs can 
be destroyed, made new or converted into 
antiques. The advertising managers are 
competent, and by adroit "featuring" of 
ancient names and trade-marks secure 
tree reading notices in the newspapers. 
Competitors, especially new designers 
and hand workers, get most of the trade, 
but there are enough old customers to 
keep the Cooperative Anti Society alive. 
The cost of maintenance is not high. 
The employees of one department buy 
from the others. The establishment can 
easily go on for another generation. 

Such conventionalised revolt as is here 
hinted at is not akin to the Irishman's 
stand "agin the government." The Irish- 
man is not sufficiently gregarious in his 
contrarieties. If his irreconcilability 
could range itself so as to be steadily 
diametrical he would own his native 
island, and no one knows how many other 
bodies of land. But he opposes in way- 
ward slants and by devious aggressions. 
He is radical and conservative in the 
same minute. Adherent to a long- 
founded convention like the Church of 
Rome, pitted against himself in little con- 
ventions like one recently held in Spring- 
field, Massachusetts, he is of all races in 
the world the most unconventional. 

A contemporary illustration of him is 
Mr. Bernard Shaw. Critics have tried 
to locate him and label him — that is, con- 
ventionalise him. He eludes everv effort 
to fix his attitude, even the attitude of 
egotism, especially the attitude of revolt 
in which the thoughtless would caricature 
him. He thinks his own way, and his 
way may be a Roman road or it may run 
cross-country. Conventional revolters 
against marriage or some other accept- 
ance are put sadly at fault by Man and 
Superman. They follow Tanner up to 
the point where the revolutionist congrat- 
ulates Violet on an irregularity assumed 



by the other persons of the piece. "I 
congratulate you, with the sincerest re- 
spect, on having the courage to do what 
you have done. You are entirely in the 
right; the family is entirely in the 
wrong." At this point in the play watch 
the audience and pick out by the nods 
of approval the serfs of ready-made 
emancipation. Mr. Shaw is with us. Up 
with nature. Down with man's preju- 
dices and false superstructures upon life. 
Then swiftly comes the surprise. Miss, 
or rather Mrs., Violet turns upon the 
young man, "flushing with indignation," 
and claims her "right as a married woman 
not to be insulted." This is a real Shaw 
touch. All camps are left in dismay, par- 
tisans "are confounded, the audience is 
reminded that this is a play and proves 
nothing. Thereafter the conventional 
majority and the conventional minority 
whisper to each other that Shaw is cer- 
tainly very clever, so interesting and 

An unsuccessful simulation of this 
genuine unconventionality is to be found 
in Mr. Chesterton. When his first essays 
appeared some of us thought him a new 
and refreshing light. His quill seemed 
pointed and unhindered. It soon became 
evident that his quills were all of one 
kind, that he bristled with challenge like 
a porcupine. As one essay succeeded 
another his formula appeared, which is 
to prove converses, to turn everything 
upside down. The process is as easy as 
taking the "not" out of the Command- 

ments and putting it in the Creed. An 
early example of the process is Lamb's 
Popular Fallacies. He knew when to 
stop ; his varied mind devised many other 
ways of being novel. Mr. Chesterton 
knows only one way ; he works as me- 
chanically as a cook turning flapjacks. 
For example : Common idea — America is 
a young country; its literature will be 
young in spirit. Chestertonian inversion : 
America is not a young country ; its lit- 
erature is not young in spirit. One de- 
fect of the method is that sometimes the 
facts refuse to flop over as easily as the 
main proposition. Mr. Chesterton's ex- 
amples by way of proof are only two. 
Whistler and Mr. Henry James, the two 
artists of all born in this country who 
are least American. Under the inverted 
proposition it would be difficult to man- 
age, say, Whitman and Mark Twain. 
Mr- Chesterton's proposition may be 
right. If we do not feel the truth of 
the statement that "out of America has 
come a sweet and startling cry, as un- 
mistakable as the cry of a dying man," 
we feel that it is a fine sentence. And be- 
sides, the idea is an agreement with some- 
thing earlier in this paper. We are not, 
however, interested in the truth or falsity 
of the proposition, but only with the habit 
of mind that produced it. As writers 
grow old we expect them to fall into con- 
ventions ; but it is doubtful if the world 
will be concerned about the old age of a 
writer who in his youth is obsessed by 
the belief that he is unconventional. 

John A. Macy. 



N a yellow chalet on a 
green Calif or nian can- 
onside, overlooking a 
winding, redwood-shaded 
road leading away from 
towns and temptations, 
Edwin Markham read 
tne manuscript of his ''Man with the Hoe" 
to its first publisher on a sunny January 
afternoon in 1899. It was the place and 
the day for the launching of a poem that 
should stir the hearts of the world. 
Wafts of fragrant air from the fresh- 
smelling redwoods came up from the 
canon to the house on the hill and floated 
gently through the open doorway into the 
pine-raftered room, where a great rustic 
chair was placed for the poet beside a 
wide Western window through which 
Mount Tamalpais looked in with a large, 
friendly smile. So near in that clear air 
stood the mountain that it seemed one 
might reach out of the window and shake 
hands with it, despite the miles that in- 

The house was only a few months old, 
and so steep was the rough scarp upon 
which it stood that to build a road up to 
it had been deemed impracticable ; so that 
all the lumber for the building of the 
dwelling had been hauled up by block and 
tackle by horse-power through a sort of 
chute. Even the piano had come up that 
way, in an awful moment while the good 
housewife stood in palpitant apprehen- 
sion watching its ascent. The place had 
been reached by a long series of wooden 
steps from the floor of the canon ; but on 
the day of the coming of the Markhams 
a new and easier pathway was being fin- 
ished, and to this my mattock and shovel 
had on that very morning put the finish- 
ing touches, after which some baskets of 
dead leaves were sprinkled over the long 
red gash in the hillside to tone down its 

The Markhams laboured slowly up the 
new trail about noon, and we all went 
down to meet them. It was a warm 
climb, and the poet had unbuttoned his 

frock coat and his black waistcoat, over 
which a long red necktie fluttered in the 

"There's inspiration in this life of the 
hills," he remarked, leaning against a 
madrona tree, after we had welcomed 
him half-way down the trail. "I wonder 
that you're not all poets up here." 

So warm it was that he pulled off his 
coat and carried it the rest of the way, 
while I guided him and Mrs. Markham 
over the more difficult passages. 

Often have I thought of that trail, 
made with my own hands, for Markham 
afterward called my attention to what it 
typified : 

"The making of that path, over which 
I was first to ascend," he said graciously, 
"was destined also to smooth the way for 
'The Man with the Hoe/ " 

When we reached the wide veranda 
and looked down upon the tops of the 
tall redwoods and up the canon to Tamal- 
pais, and down across the green marshes 
to San Francisco Bay, he took off his hat, 
and while his fine, frosted hair was ruf- 
fled by the wind he quoted some lines 
from Bvron's "Prisoner of Chillon," and 
said he wished all the people of the world 
might enjoy such an orientation. 

At luncheon in the dining-room, I ven- 
tured to speak of the new poem. Had 
he brought it with him ? I said that this 
time I had hopes of hearing it ; for that 
when I had tried to listen to it a few 
evenings before at the house of Carroll 
Carrington in San Francisco, there had 
been such a buzz of talk from a party of 
young people in an adjoining room that 
about all I caught was: 


What to him are Plato and the swing of 

"There's a lot more than that in the 
verse," said he, glancing at Mrs. Mark- 
ham. "Isn't there, my dear?" 

"Indeed there is," replied the proud 

It was because I had suspected that 
there was "a lot more" that I had asked 

. _"■"■■:. 



> * \ 


* wB 


j >■■''; p. ' ; 






him to come to the canon and fetch the 
poem. Markham's lyrical work was not 
unknown to me, but not enough of it 
had come to my eye to place him as a 
poet. I had heard of him occasionally 
through mutual friends, but all I knew of 
the man personally had been learned dur- 
ing the half-hour in which we had talked 
together after our introduction at the 
Carrington residence three or four nights 
before. At that time "The Man with the 
Hoe" was not really finished. When in- 
vited to come over to the canon and read 
the poem, he had said that he would do 
so as soon as he could revise and com- 
plete it. Being at that time the principal 
of a grammar school in Oakland, he came 
to our house on a school holiday. His 
cultured, keen-witted wife, formerly 
Anna Catherine Murphy, had also been 
in pedagogic work and had written some 
text-books. They had been married 
about a year at the time of the begin- 
ning of our acquaintance. 

As long as we of the canon shall live 
we shall remember the picture of the poet 
as he sat in the big rustic chair at our 
open window, with the manuscript of 
"The Man with the Hoe" in his hands. 
The large, well-moulded figure, the leo- 
nine head, with its strong face, the full 
beard and thick, careless hair, and most 
of all, the brightly shining youthful eyes, 
black as obsidian - and blackly browed, 
were very impressive. He reminded me 
strongly of Bayard Taylor, whom I saw 
when I was a youth, only I think that of 
the two Markham was the handsomer 

He preluded his reading by saying that 
about fifteen years before he had come 
upon a small print of Millet's Hoeman, 
and that the bent 2 hopeless peasant figure 
had made such a strong appeal to his 
heart that he had at once jotted down 
some notes for a poem on the subject. 
For years he had kept that little picture 
pinned to his wall. Afterward he had 
seen the original painting in an art loan 
exhibition in San Francisco, where it was 
owned. He said that he stood for over an 
hour before the "terrible picture," the 
power and the terror of the thing grow- 
ing upon his heart, and the sorrow of it 
compelling his spirit. He went home and 
began to compose the poem, but it was 

not completed for years. He did not 
even consider the manuscript in his 
hands as finished, but he modestly said 
that he hoped it might pass muster. 

Slowly, in his great vibrant voice, he 
began to read the verses, the tremendous 
power of which struck me forcibly. The 
poem voiced a passionate appeal for the 
oppressed of all ages, and I knew at once 
that, properly presented, it would meet 
with wide acceptance, not only as a large 
poetical utterance, but as a plea for the 

Such a silence as Carlvle declared was 
the finest tribute to great work fell for 
a time upon the little household. Then 
we all congratulated the poet upon his 
work, and, with the editorial instinct for 
that which arrests the reader's eye, I 
asked Mr. Markham what he intended 
to do about the publication of the poem, 
saying that if it were not already spoken 
for, I should like to have it for my lit- 
erary page in the San Francisco Exam- 
iner, as the place for it was in a popular 

"I had thought," said he, "of keeping 
it to read at a Labour Day meeting. That 
would be a good occasion, wouldn't it?" 

My reply was that a great poem was 
its own occasion — that it should appear 
at once and in the Examiner. This ap- 
peal was made with fervency of which I 
have never been ashamed. 

"Let me have it," said I, "and it shall 
be given such an advertisement and such 
a presentation as ought to insure it an 
immediate reception. It's a long time to 
Labour Day, and you can read it then if 
you wish to. The publication of it now 
will not spoil it for that occasion." 

He agreed, and the manuscript was 
passed over to the proud literary editor, 
no terms being mentioned. 

In the newspaper office on the Monday 
following I scanned our type chart and 
selected a great primer art gothic — a big, 
bold-faced letter in which I had the poem 
set to a wide measure. To one of our 
decorative draughtsmen I gave some sug- 
gestions as to a border design which was 
to frame the poem, and a half-tone 
photographic reproduction of Millet's 
picture that was to go above the verse. 
The proof of the design, picture and 
poem showed that the whole would make 



a very striking feature, that would ar- 
rest the eye of a person glancing at my 
Sunday literary page. But I wanted to 
force the attention of the Examiners 
readers in a still stronger way to so 
"boom" the poem that nobody should es- 
cape it. So I prepared a floridly worded 
appreciation of the poem for the same 
page — an appreciation that was intended 
to smite the ears of the groundlings. I 
saw the humour of my glowing adjectives, 
even before Life pointed it out to me in 
some smiling paragraphs, and so did 
Markham, who laughed when he was 
shown the proof of it along with that of 
his large-typed verse. 

''Well, you have an expressive way of 
putting things," he remarked, cringing a 
little at my crowning phrase. "But aren't 
you afraid that it will be thought that 
my work falls short of your praise of 
it ?" 

"Not at all," was the confident reply. 

Then he began revising the printed 
verse. Never have I seen a writer so 
painfully, I may say harassingly solici- 
tous as to the correctness of his work in 
print, as this same Markham. He read 
proof after proof of the poem, haunting 
the office until midnight, going over each 
letter and nearly driving me to distrac- 
tion with his revisions and alterations. 
After I thought I was all clone with him 
and his interminable corrections, he sent 
over from Oakland a Balzacian proof- 
sheet that brought down upon him the 
choicest profanity of the printers, who 
had to tear the form apart again after it 
was stereotyped, and make new plates. 
So broodingly solicitous was he on this 
point that he wrote me a long letter, in 
which he said : 

"Til pay expenses involved in the 
changes if it is merely a matter of ex- 
pense. I suppose my interest in such 
small matters springs out of my passion 
for perfection. Do not be surprised to 
learn that sometimes a capital letter 
seems as large to me as the Matterhorn, 
and a comma as important as a bend in 
the Mississippi." 

He discovered many a Matterhorn and 
many a crook and curve in "The Man 
with the Hoe." Even after the presses 
were humming he unexpectedly clutched 
me again as the Ancient Mariner did the 

wedding guest, by this fervent and hur- 
riedly despatched appeal : 

"If you love me, keep your eye on my 
poem long enough to see that the last 
errors I marked are properly corrected." 

So convinced was I of the bigness of 
the literary event which I was humbly 
aiding to give wings, that I preserved all 
the epistolary adjurations and comments 
of the author. 

In flaming type, "The Man with the 
Hoe" was advertised in the daily edition 
of the paper, and when Sunday came 
and it was off the press it was read and 
hailed by many thousands of people. The 
idea of making a newspaper sensation out 
of a serious piece of blank verse was 
probably the wildest that any journalist 
ever had ; but, thanks to the swing of 
Markham's lines, I actually succeeded in 
doing that impossible thing, and soon it 
was speeding all over the land. Cali- 
fornia is, I believe, the only place in this 
country where such a sensation could 
have had its genesis. A land where every- 
body reads, where every other person is 
an author and every tenth person a poet 
could not fail to sit up and take notice of 
what had happened. Markham's mouth- 
filling words were soon being read aloud 
in nearly every house on the coast, minis- 
ters were preaching sermons on it, law- 
yers were quoting it in court arguments, 
and every orator and elocutionist in a 
land of countless spellbinders was spout- 
ing it from the platform. The labour 
unions became very much excited over 
the poem, and applauded it to the echo 
whenever it was read at their meetings. 

"You have set a stone rolling," wrote 
Markham to me from his home a few 
days after the poem came out. "The 
Bulletin people are here this morning 
asking for biographical notes and a hand- 
ful of Markhamic metres for their Sun- 
day issue. See what you've done!" 

The publication of "The Man with the 
Hoe" was followed up by the Examiner 
three days later with a whole page of Mr. 
Markham's other verse, which I selected 
from published and unpublished pieces, 
and in the same issue were printed let- 
ters from all sorts of people commend- 
ing the sentiments of the poem and their 
masterly expression. Indeed, during the 
month that followed there were published 



in the Examiner and other coast papers 
hundreds of columns of letters, signed 
and unsigned articles, and editorials com- 
menting on the great literary event. The 
Eastern press took up the story and soon 
the name of Edwin Markham and "The 
Man with the Hoe" became familiar 
everywhere. These tributes to his poetic 
powers were enough to turn any man's 
head, and it was no wonder that after a 
long life of obscurity Markham, leaping 
so loftily at a single bound, should feel 
the dizziness of the high altitude in which 
he now found himself. No poet ever 
came so suddenly to the front nor with 
such great surprise to himself. To him 
his wonderful success was a constant 
marvel and delight. He had worked 
hard and had waited long for recognition, 
and now, all in a moment, it had come. 

When he came over to see me one day 
within a fortnight or two after the pub- 
lication of "The Man with the Hoe" he 
showed me a bundle of telegrams from 
New York publishers, all clamouring for 
a book. of poems, some of them offering 
him as high as 20 per cent, royalty, which, 
considering the fact that poetry is always 
such a negligible factor from a publish- 
er's point of view, tells the whole story 
of his success. He asked me to help him 
select a publishing house, which I did. 
The poem was pirated, however, by many 
firms in England and America, although 
copyrighted by the Examiner, and 
printed in booklets, sold broadcast. This 
helped the poet's fame and he made no 

In those first hours of his success, the 
boyish laugh of Markham, who will al- 
ways be a youth, though he live to a 
hundred years, rang forth in a way that 
was delightful to hear. Many times he 
repeated that it "was all too good to be 
true." When I went over to his modest 
Oakland home, every wall of which was 
lined with books, even to the dining-room 
and kitchen, he showed me stacks of 
letters and newspaper articles that had 
come from all parts of the country, most 
of them highly laudatory of his work. 

But there was another side to the lit- 
erary sensation made by the poem. 
Ix>well sagely observed in writing of 
Keats, "It is curious that some men 
should resent more fiercely what they 

suspect to be good verses than what they 
know to be bad morals." Many other- 
wise worthy literates of the academic type 
saw in Markham's popularity his weak- 
est point. What should the public know 
of poetry? Nothing. Therefore, if they 
applauded it, it must be bad. So they 
proceeded to attack both lines and senti- 
ments most vigorously, pointing out in 
long columns and in many magazine 
pages that his logic was as unsound as his 
metre, and that both were unworthy of 
serious attention. At the same time 
equally able critics subscribed to the 
sentiments, but belaboured the style as 
"too oratorical," or "too literary." One 
Swinburnian bard disposed of him in 
florid verse as a "tuneless tyro." These 
attacks and the replies thereto added to 
the bulk of free advertising which the 
poet was receiving, and were of untold 
benefit to Markham, to whom some of 
them were a source of infinite delight. 
I never heard him laugh more loudly than 
while reading the solemn verdict of a 
professor of English in one of the best 
Eastern colleges upon "Mr. Markham's 
veiled but none the less vicious attack 
upon the American farmer." Most of 
the other criticisms were equally innocu- 
ous. He enjoyed the blame almost as 
much as the praise. 

"Here I've written about Millet's 
peasant," the poet would say, "and they 
accuse me of anarchy and high treason 
against the United States Government." 

I had thought to pay Mr. Markham 
fifty dollars for the newspaper publica- 
tion of his poem, but before the verses 
had made such a noise, the frugal hand 
of the man who audited the accounts 
split my figures in two, so that the poet 
received but twenty-five dollars, which he 
accepted without protest. Considering 
the fact that $750 was paid to John Vance 
Cheney by the New York Sun for a "re- 
ply" to the poem it may readily be under- 
stood that the original labourer was 
worthy of a better wage. Rut, after all, 
he received it, for it put him in the way 
to get large sums for his verse a little 
later, though he never has received quite 
as much for a single poem as did the 
man who made the verbose and inglori- 
ous metrical explanation of why "The 
Man with the Hoe" was all wrong. Still, 



on more than one occasion, Markham has 
received $500 for a short poem, as in the 
case of his "Peace over Africa," pub- 
lished by a London paper. 

As soon after his apotheosis as his feet 
again touched the ground he gave up 
school-teaching, crossed the continent for 
the first time and has not recrossed it, 
having lived in the East ever since. Al- 
though he has never written as popular 
a poem as "The Man with the Hoe" he 
has many times exceeded it in poetic 
quality, notably in "Lincoln," "Virgilia," 
"The Homing Heart," "Semiramis," and 
in his ballads, of which form of verse he 
has lately shown a mastery that has sur- 
prised critics who had assured us of his 

Looking down my prejudicial perspec- 
tive toward the time when a long line of 
scholars shall have written the names of 
those poets of America whose works are 
worthy to be preserved, I can see the 
name of Markham highly and firmly in- 
scribed. If he had written nothing 
greater than his "Semiramis — a Look 
into the Gulf," his fame would be safe. 
Already such men as Edmund Gosse and 
Edmund Clarence Stedman have failed 

and heralded him, and in future years 
there will be many others to note the true 
poetic quality of his work. 

I could write of many other interest- 
ing features of my association with the 
poet and with his work ; but these are of 
too intimate and familiar a nature to set 
forth in public print. Already I have 
transgressed some of the conventional 
statutes in such case made and provided. 
I should not have done this but for the 
fact that there have been so many strange 
tales of how "The Man with the Hoe" 
came to be published and of my connec- 
tion therewith. Once, in a small wav 
and in a small Western paper, I recited 
some of the foregoing facts. Since then 
there have been so many improvements 
upon my story — some of them quite pic- 
turesque and almost persuading me to 
the point of conviction — that I have hesi- 
tated to write more about the matter. 
Still, on reflection, I can conceive of no 
great harm in giving the true history on 
a larger scale in a widely read magazine, 
even though the said history may not 
agree with fhe authorised and accepted 

Bailey Millard. 



F. E. Schelling's ''Elizbethan 

That this work would be an important 
contribution to the literature of the sub- 
ject must have been a foregone conclu- 
sion to a public familiar with Professor 
Schelling's earlier essays, such as "The 
English Chronicle Play" and "The 
Queen's Quest," in the same general di- 
rection. To study with intensive care 
and minuteness the course of English 
drama from its origins in the Miracle and 
Morality plays to the hour of Cromwell- 
ian blight, has been the writer's special 
task, to which he has been able to bring 

♦Elizabethan ^rama. By Felix E. Schel- 
ling. Two Vols. Boston: Houghton, 
Mifflin and Company. 

a rare equipment of zeal, scholarship, and 
good sense. His method is as direct as 
it is thoroughgoing, and he is as little 
prone as it is possible for any specialist 
to be to exaggerate the importance of his 
objective. For Elizabethan drama, as a 
whole, he has an obviously unaffected if 
no longer fashionable admiration. He 
deplores the "misdirected if pardonable 
zeal with which everything Elizabethan 
has been given a colour Shakespearian; 
and thus the true proportions of his vig- 
orous and manifold age have been dis- 
torted and obscured by Shakespeare's 
own overpowering greatness." He finds 
independent excellences in the work of 
many of Shakespeare's contemporaries — 
superiorities even, in the development of 
the specific quality or in the portraiture 



of the specific type. Beaumont's 
Knight of the Burning Pestle is "in- 
imitable." It was Marlowe, not Shake- 
speare, who gave poetry to the English 
stage. Dekker and Middleton, in their 
Honest Whore, produced two master- 
pieces of characterisation which he does 
not hesitate to submit to a supreme test : 
"There is no completer realisation of 
human nature in the range of the drama 
than the character of Bellafronte in both 
her unreclaimed and her repentant state. 
Nor has Shakespeare, in the very pleni- 
tude of his power, conceived a character 
at once so engaging and so touching as 
Orlando Frescobaldo." 

Professor Schelling's principal sources 
have been the dramatic materials them- 
selves: the plays, masques, and civic 
pageants, somewhere about a thousand in 
number, which have been actually pre- 
served to us in one form or other. If he 
has carried to his study of them some- 
thing of the bias of the scholar toward 
finding absolute excellence in what has 
certainly a relative significance for his 
purposes, he has carried to it also a sound 
critical instinct and — what is no doubt 
part of the same thing — a disinclination 
to be led by the nose. The footnotes bear 
sufficient witness to his familiarity with 
the criticism of the subject. For their 
presence he "requests the indulgence ac- 
corded to the woodsman who, traversing 
an overgrown path, blazes his way. He 
spoils a few trees; but you can always 
follow him." There is no doubt that he 
has made his own trail. He disclaims 
the intention to make of his book a his- 
tory of English dramatic literature or of 
English dramatic poetry "a chronicle of 
the stage, a bibliography of plays, or a 
biography of playwrights." To do any 
of these things would be worth while, 
but his purpose has been "to relate not 
only those facts concerning the drama of 
this period which are usually compre- 
hended under the term history, but like- 
wise to determine the development of 
species of dramatic compositions within 
the period ; to ascertain as nearly as pos- 
sible the character of each play consid- 
ered, and refer it to its type ; to establish 
its relations to what had preceded and 
to what was to follow ; and definitely to 
learn when a given dramatic species ap- 

peared, how long it continued, and when 
it was superseded by other forms." 

This is a sufficiently clear statement of 
scientific method. As a matter of fact it 
fails to suggest the flexibility of treat- 
ment which the writer has actually em- 
ployed. His assembling and analysis of 
materials is as remote as possible from a 
mere process of classification. The book 
contains a good deal of matter of bi- 
ographical interest, and a pretty clear im- 
pression may be had from it of the con- 
ditions of the Elizabethan stage. But 
these matters are of complementary im- 
portance. As the critic properly says, 
"Necessary digression is its own excuse, 
and a devious course is often the most 

To the general reader not the least in- 
teresting parts of the book are likely to 
be such passages as that in which the 
physical conditions of the Elizabethan 
theatre are discussed in the chapter en- 
titled "The London Playhouse." He is 
at some pains to prove by citations from 
diaries and inventories of the period that 
the scenery and properties of Shake- 
speare's stage, however rude, were much 
more considerable in sum and quality 
than has been admitted by many com- 
mentators. "We may feel sure," he as- 
serts, "that the cave which Imogen en- 
ters, Juliet's tomb, the sunlit, box-lined 
walk in which Malvolio practises deport- 
ment — all were in some way symbolised, 
if not represented, on the popular stage 
of the day." Costumes, even when other 
accessories were most meagre, were often 
sumptuous. The costumer was then, as 
now, sometimes better paid than the 
playwright : "Henslowe's inventories 
abound in items concerning fatten doub- 
lets/ and 'vellet* gowns, 'ymbraderd with 
silk' and 'layd with gowld lace.' On the 
fifth of February, 1602, Henslowe paid 
out £7 13s. 'for a womones gowne of 
black velvett for the playe of a womon 
kylld with kindness* ; and seven days later 
paid Thomas Heywood £3 for the play 

Testimony is here to be found passim 
of the amazing popularity of the poetic 
play during the half-century in question, 
not only as it stood for library and news- 
paper, but in its higher aspect. The most 
surprising proof of this adduced is the 



quotation from the journal of a Captain 
Keeling commanding the English ship, 
the Dragon, in the waters of Sierra 
Leone, in the year 1607: "I sent the in- 
terpreter according to his desier abord 
the Hector whear he brook fast and after 
came abord mee, where we gave the 
tragedie of Hamlctt." Later in the 
month, he continues, "Captain Hawkins 
dined with me, when my companions 
acted Kinge Richard the Second." 
Whilst on the following day he concludes, 
"I invited Captain Hawkins to a ffishe din- 
ner, and had Hamlctt acted abord mee: 
which I p'mitt to keepe my people from 
idlenes and unlawful games or sleepe." 

Professor Schelling's incidental bits 
of criticism are nearly always refreshing 
for their independence and often for 
their energy. He has no tolerance for 
slip-shod or malicious commentators, and 
makes more than one vigorous protest 
against commonly accepted opinions for 
which one or other of these offensive 
classes are responsible; for example, the 
theory that Shakespeare and his con- 
temporaries were generally guilty of 
petty spite toward each other : "There is 
nothing to show that these old play- 
wrights were habitually of an envious 
and splenetic temper, and it is often diffi- 
cult to maintain patience with the subtle, 
critical interpretations which involve the 
gratuitous assumption of sinister mo- 
tives, malevolent rivalry, and habitual ill- 
temper among them." Equally short 
shrift is given to the convention that 
Shakespeare was peculiar and culpable in 
his attitude toward "the mob" : "Unflag- 
ging in the kindliness and fidelity with 
which he drew the individual man, how- 
ever simple, lowly, dull, or uncouth, 
Shakespeare stopped short of the brute- 
worship of the multitude, a dangerous 
aberration from the teachings of experi- 
ence, reserved for the sentimentalist and 
the pseudo-humanitarian of the nine- 
teenth and twentieth centuries." One 
must mention also the critic's defence of 
Shakespeare against the charge, made 
fashionable by brisk writers like Mr. 
Barrett Wendell, that much of his work 
was a product of inadvertence. Mr. 
Schelling believes him to have been a con- 
scious artist, knowing perfectly well what 
he was about, and securing the effects he 

desired by the means he chose. He is 
firm also in the belief that "Shakespeare's 
care was ever and above all for the char- 
acters; that it was the man, not his do- 
ings, that always interested him ; and that 
plot, setting, and staging were as naught 
to him when the fervour of imaginative 
portraiture once seized upon the heart of 
this great fashioner of men." 

In his larger plan of classification, the 
writer admirably succeeds. From its 
sources in the Miracle and Morality 
plays, through historical drama and the 
drama of manners to its fulfilment in the 
romantic and tragic forms which best ex- 
pressed that quest of beauty in unusual 
guises which was, he affirms, the heart 
and soul of Elizabethan drama, the critic 
leads us with steady step and hand. The 
full Bibliographical Essay, and the List 
of Plays which are appended to the main 
text, make of the book the most com- 
plete and serviceable work in its field. 

H. W. Bovnton. 


Urussov's "Russia from Within"* 

Here is a book of rare interest written 
from a rare point of view — an account 
by a native official of the intricate work- 
ings of the Russian bureaucracy. The 
author, Prince Urussov, as the American 
translator so aptly says, is not a destruc- 
tive agitator, but a constructive patriot, 
being a believer in a constitutional mon- 
archy and a representative of the Consti- 
tutional Democracy in the First Duma. 
Prince Urussov, as governor of Bes- 
sarabia, shortly after the terrible pogrom 
or massacre of Kishinev, traced the re- 
sponsibility for that crime to the very 
government he served. He confesses 
that at the time of his appointment he 
knew as little of Bessarabia as he did of 
New Zealand, that he had no interest in 
the Jews and knew nothing of their con- 
dition nor of the laws specifically applica- 
ble to them. However, after a colour- 
less audience with the Czar and an inter- 
view with the dictatorial Minister of the 
Interior, Plehve, the new appointee de- 
termined to acquaint himself with the 

♦Memoirs of a Russian Governor. By Prince 
Serge Dmitriyevich Urussov. New York: 
Harper and Brothers. 


2 75 

law concerning the Jews and at the same 
time to rid himself of any feeling of 
aloofness and preconceived distrust to- 
ward that people. 

How successful the new official was in 
steering between the Charybdis of the 
bureaucracy and the Scylla of anti- 
Semitism is manifest from one of his 
many tactful performances. While at- 
tending a religious service of the Jews, 
when the precentor sang the Russian na- 
tional hymn the governor had to decide 
for the first time, unexpectedly and sud- 
denly, a difficult question of etiquette. In 
the synagogue it is not the custom to re- 
move the head-covering, but the national 
hymn must be heard with uncovered 
head. Here the governor got out of his 
dilemma by holding his hand to the vizor 
of his cap in token of respect, and thus 
listened to the national hymn. As a 
further token that he was determined to 
do things in his own way, and to avail 
himself to the full extent of the inde- 
pendence granted by law to the gov- 
ernors, were some of Prince Urussov's 
acts in his provincial- administration. Al- 
though a visit to a Jew, considered polit- 
ically unreliable, was recorded against 
him at St. Petersburg, he determined at 
once to receive the deputation from the 
local Jewish community and, in spite of 
Plehve's parting injunction to have less 
speech-making and less philo-Semitism, 
he not only spoke kindly to the Jews, but 
determined to withdraw the military 
forces in Kishinev itself. The aim of 
this startling order was to give, by an un- 
expected and an unusual measure, a new 
direction to the public mind. How suc- 
cessful was that aim was evident from 
the events of the new incumbent's first 
week of office. He came to the citv on 


Tuesday, received the Russian officials 
on Wednesday, and the Jewish deputa- 
tion on Thursday. On Saturday, for the 
first time since the April massacres, the 
Jewish public, clad in holiday attire, pa- 
raded the city parks and the people as a 
whole began hurriedly to repair the dam- 
age done by the previous disorders. 

With outward quiet restored at Kish- 
inev the governor now began the strug- 
gle against the official corruption which 
was so intimately connected with the 
troubles which had afflicted the town. At 

this point, and as if to discount the some- 
what partisan use made of this book by 
its American translator, the author states 
that the blame for the demoralisation of 
the police seemed to fall on those hapless 
Jews who made fictitious land leases and 
bribed the officials for permission to 
dwell outside the restricted zones of resi- 
dence. In this connection Urussov casu- 
ally remarks that of the H\q local police 
captains, two were good, two quite satis- 
factory, but that it was necessary to re- 
move the fifth for his "extremely un- 
ceremonious bribe-taking." 

In an unusually interesting chapter the 
writer next exposes the evil effects of 
foreign intervention in the affairs of his 
own country. Great uneasiness, he ex- 
plains, was called forth in St. Petersburg 
in the summer of 1903 by the news of the 
expected interpellation in the British 
Parliament concerning the relations of 
the Russian Government to the pogrom, 
and diplomatic actions became necessary 
in order to relieve the Czar for receiving 
the grandiose address of the Americans 
requesting the protection of the Jews 
from further massacres. Following these 
ill-considered efforts, now for the first 
time a malevolent attitude toward the 
Jews was manifested in the highest court 
circles. Until then only one grand duke 
had the reputation of being an implaca- 
ble anti-Semite, but after 1903 this feeling 
was extended to the Czar's immediate 
family, who had it in their power by a 
single authoritative word to have main- 
tained order in the provinces of the Pale. 
But the interference of outsiders was re- 
sented, and nothing was done to destroy 
the firm convictions of the many that the 
methods of the population in evening up 
with their ancient enemies was, from a 
government standpoint, a useful policy 
and acceptable to the authorities. Here 
follows an exposure of contributory neg- 
ligence of the military at Kishinev and a 
presentation of the author's views of the 
pogroms. There was a time, he asserts, 
when a single company in the hands of a 
capable man could have localised, stopped 
and smothered the riot flames. Instead 
of this the whole Kishinev garrison, ar- 
riving late and keeping inactive for two 
days, corroborated the legend that free 
plunder was granted by the Czar. This 



is a definite opinion, yet the real cause of 
the April massacre, which cost the Kish- 
inev Jews forty-two lives and inflicted 
on them the loss of a million rubles, is 
declared by Prince Urussov to remain 
still obscure. From an examination of 
the secret papers of the Kishinev case in 
the Central Police Bureau of St. Peters- 
burg, the Prince found not a thing to 
justify the assumption that the Ministry 
of the Interior thought it expedient to 
permit the Jewish massacre or even the 
anti-Jewish demonstration in Kishinev. 
Equally unauthentic was the letter al- 
leged to have been addressed by the Min- 
ister of the Interior to the Governor of 
Bessarabia and published in the English 
papers, which suggested the indulgent at- 
titude toward any active warfare carried 
on by the Christian populace against their 
oppressors, the Jews. Finally, like this 
apocryphal letter, was the artificial ex- 
planation that the massacre was a sudden 
irresistible outburst of animosity ac- 
cumulated long ago, retribution exacted 
for old wrongs, a manifestation of the 
stupendous force of the common people, 
the mob, squaring accounts with their 
old-time foes, the Jews. 

These are declared inadequate causes, 
since the main reason for the plunder of 
the Jews in the Pale of Settlement was 
the special legislation favouring the view 
that the Jews are subjects beyond the 
law's full protection — an element dan- 
gerous to the State. This legislation had 
as its monstrous manifestation the 
growth of the notorious leagues of the 
"True Russians" who enjoyed a certain 
degree of protection from a government 
that regarded their order as a patriotic 
bulwark of the autocracy and of Russian 
nativism. Hence the police came to think 
that the hostile attitude toward the Jews 
was a sort of government watchword, 
that Jews might be oppressed, not out of 
"fear," but as a matter of "conscience." 
In connection with this the conviction 
grew among the ignorant masses that 
hostile acts against the Jews could be 
undertaken with impunity. These went 
so far that a legend appeared among the 
people that the Czar had ordered a three 
days' massacre of the Jews. It was, then, 
because of this encouragement of narrow 
nationalistic tendencies, a policy foster- 

ing among the several nationalities mu- 
tual distrust and hatred, that Prince 
Urussov records as his judgment that 
the central government cannot shake off 
its moral responsibility for the slaughter 
and plunder that went on at Kishinev. 

/. IVoodbridge Riley. 


Professor Miller's Translation of 
the Senecan Tragedies* 

It has long been the fashion for critics 
airily to dismiss the Senecan tragedies as 
undeserving of serious attention ; as mere 
rhetorical exercises whose chief char- 
acteristic was verbose rant; but such 
criticism in most cases appears to have 
been based on very slight first-hand ac- 
quaintance with the original. The 
euphuistic style of the earlier English 
translations no doubt had much to do 
with the upgrowth of this idea, v m ch 
must be greatly modified when one 
studies Seneca himself in the Latin or in 
either of the two recent translations. 

The latest of- these is the work of Pro- 
fessor Frank J. Miller of the University 
of Chicago, who has rendered the ten 
tragedies into English verse. The di- 
alogue is given in the English heroic 
verse, except in the Mcdca, where the ex- 
periment is made of imitating the original 
trimeters with our Alexandrine. The 
choruses are done into a variety of lyric 
metres, sometimes with, but oftener with- 
out, rhyme. 

The translation of Seneca is no light 
undertaking. To approximate the 
thought is not difficult, and one may even 
reflect something of the glitter of the 
original and still miss much of its mean- 
ing — so full is his style of delicate shad- 
ing and remote allusion. Often an ade- 
quate translation must amount almost to 
a running commentary, requiring a line 
sometirrif s to render a single word. Pro- 
fessor Miller does not approach this 
work as a novice. Years ago he pub- 
lished the "epic tragedy" of Dido, which, 
excellent in itself, also formed a valuable 
prohtsio for the present undertaking. 

Of the translation as a whole it may 

♦The Tragedies of Seneca. Translated into 
English verse by Frank Tiistus Miller. Chi- 
cago: The University of Chicago Press. Pp. x 
+534. Price $3.20, postpaid. 



be said at once that it is very well done 
indeed. The thought is firmly grasped 
and clearly expressed in English, which, 
as a rule, matches the original in dignity 
and sweep of rhythm. In many lines are 
combined a precise literalness of render- 
ing with a really musical effect in the 
English : as when mutis taciturn litoribus 
mare (Here. Fur. 536) becomes "a still 
sea hemmed by silent shores" ; or when — 

qua prat a iacent 
Quae rorifera mulcens aura 
Zephyrus vernas evocat herbas (Phaed. 10-12) — 

is rendered "where pastures lie / whose 

springing grass is waked to life / by 
Zephyr's breath, dew-laden" ; or when 
male impcratur cum regit vulgus duces 
reads "111 fares the state when commons 
govern kings." 

Good examples of the language and the 
versification are seen in Troades (1077 
ff.), where the gathering of the crowd to 
witness the fate of Astyanax is de- 
scribed : 

The people pour, 
A motley, curious throng of high and low. 
For some a distant hill gives open view: 
While others seek a cliff, upon whose edge 
The crowd in tiptoed expectation stand. 
The beech tree, laurel, pine, each has its load: 
The whole wood bends beneath its human 

in Troades (199 ff.), where is this bit of 
description : 

The sea lies tranquil, motionless: the wind 
Its boisterous threats abates, and where but now 
The stormtossed waters raged in angry mood 
The gentle waves lap harmless on the shore; 

or in Octavia (740 ff.), where the phi- 
losophy of dreams is thus set forth : 

All things which occupy the waking mind 
Some subtle power, swift working, weaves again 
Into our web of dreams. 

Of course a standard so high is not 
maintained without an occasional lapse. 
Operi longo fas est obrepere somnum, 
Horace tells us, and this is a "long work" 
of nearly 12,000 lines in the Latin and 
many more in the translation. Accord- 
ingly we meet occasionally such a harsh 

line as ''Ulysses Ajax; Menelaus Hec- 
tor's" (Ayam. 513); ''Of womankind? 
Inexorable his resolve" (Phced. 231), 
which appears to have an extra foot ; or 
"Defiling the holy altar with its stain" 
(Troades 45). But such instances are 
rare, and even serve by contrast to em- 
phasise the excellence of the whole. 

In the choruses Professor Miller has 
used various measures, relying for the 
most part on the eight-syllable iambic 
verse, the "long metre" of hymnology, 
but imitating at times the dactylic, ana- 
pestic or choriambic measures of the 
original. For example, in the CEdipus 
(403-508) is a long rhapsody in honour 
of Bacchus, in which the successive 
strophes vary in length and rhythm, but 
are alike in being introduced each by 
some lines in the dactylic hexameter. 
This feature has beein retained by the 
translator, and his English metres fairly 
reflect the movement of the original. 
Take the first ten lines: 

Bind ye now your flowing locks with the sway- 
ing ivy, 
Brandish aloft with your languishing arms the 
Nysjean thyrus! 
O glorious light of heaven, attend the 

Which noble Thebes, thy Thebes, O beauti- 
ful Bacchus, 
With suppliant hands outstretched here 
offers thee. 
Turn hither thy smiling virgin face, 
Dispel the clouds with thy starry 

The gloomy threats of Erebus, 
And ravenous fate. 

One of the best examples of the rhym- 
ing choruses is met in Troades (1009- 
1055). The opening stanza runs: 

'Tis sweet for one in grief to know 
That he but feels a common woe; 
And lighter falls the stroke of care 
Which all with equal sorrow bear: 
For selfish and malign is human grief 
Which in the tears of others finds relief. 

A few lines from the first chorus of 
the Phcedra (Hippolytus) will serve to 
illustrate a favourite metre, used here 
with some freedom in order to express 
the spirit of the passage, which in the 



Latin is written in sapphics (as was the 
passage just quoted from the Troades). 
The theme is the power of Cupid : 

No peace nor rest does he give; worldwide 
Are his flying weapons sown abroad ; 
The shores that see the rising sun, 
And the land that lies at the goal of the west ; 
The south where raging Cancer glows, 
And the land of the cold Arcadian Bear 
With its ever wandering tribe** — all know 
And have felt the fires of love. 

Seneca's trimeters conform strictly to 


the laws laid down for that measure, 
making use, of course, of the various res- 
olutions permissible under those laws. 
This is reflected to a slight extent by the 
introduction of an occasional anapaest in 
the blank verse of the translation. Ex- 
amples are : " Tis the common fault of 
youth to have no check" (Tro. 250) ; and 
"From her illustrious line my humble 
blood / Shall a richer hue derive {Here. 
Fur. 347). " 

A novel feature of this work is that 
"the line numbers as printed in the trans- 
lation are identical with those of the orig- 
inal text." This facilitates comparison, 
and will prove a great convenience to 
careful readers. 

Besides the translation the volume 
contains a brief introductory essay by 
Professor John M. Manly on "The Influ- 
ence of the Tragedies of Seneca upon 
Early English Drama"; a comparative 
analysis in parallel columns of the Sene- 
can plays and the Greek plays most 
nearly corresponding; and an index of 
mythological names, with references to 
the lines in which they are mentioned in 
the text. Before each play is placed a 
brief account of the events leading up to 
it, and to the Octaina is given a special 
introduction discussing briefly the Roman 
historical drama, of which this is the only 
extant specimen. 

The book js handsomely printed with 
clear type on good paper, and the proof- 
reader evidently has done his work well. 
An error occurs here and there, as is 
practically inevitable in a first edition — 
an occasional transposition or mistake in 
punctuation and a few such blunders in 
spelling as "straightest" for "straitest," 
"chaffing" for "chafing," "Britains" for 
"Britons," "armament" for "ornament." 

Errors in translation are rare, those noted 
including paret (Here. Fur. 364), fide 
(Here. Fur. 1178), feros (Phcod. 241), 
tulit (Tro. 555), stulte (Oct. 449), inex- 
pugnabilis (Oct. 870) and a very few 
others. But it is easier to pick flaws in 
another's work than to improve on it one- 
self, and in this case it is vclut si egregio 
ins per sos reprehendas c or pore nan'os. 

On the whole this work, without being 
slavishly literal, is remarkably true to the 
content and spirit of the original, and is 
easily the most satisfying English version 
of the tragedies. Students of our own 
drama, as well as of Greek and Roman 
tragedy, will find it a book well worth 
having; and even the general reader will 
enjoy the clearness of its style and the 
music of its verse. 

H. M. Kingery. 


Mr. Bruce's "The Riddle of Per- 

Psychology, once the dry est as well as 
the most "useless" of disciplines, has of 
late years taken a turn that gives it both 
an immense practical value and a peculiar 
interest for the average man. On the one 
hand, the study of abnormal psychical 
states in the interests of medical science 
has added a new tract to the territory 
within the reach of the healing art ; while 
on the other, the very modern exploration 
of those phases of personality which have 
always seemed to contain supernatural 
implications ministers to the most per- 
sistent and general curiosity of humanity. 
Both of these lines of inquiry are of such 
recent origin that they have been pursued 
almost entirely by a very small group of 
students, and they have but just estab- 
lished themselves as respectable even in 
the eyes of scientists. But already they 
have attracted the attention of the public, 
quick as the scientists themselves to see 
the possibilities of these new studies, and 
less troubled than they by associations 
with quackery and charlatanry. Writers 
of fiction have not been slow to see the 
opportunity. Mr. Gelett Burgess and 
Mr. Arthur Stringer are among those 

♦The Riddle of Personality. By H. Adding- 
ton Bruce. New York: Moffat, Yard and 



who have recently seized the dramatic 
possibilities contained in authenticated 
cases of dual personality, and they have 
had a great mass of scientific data which 
was inaccessible to Stevenson when he 
wrote Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. The 
success of Mr. Augustus Thomas's clever 
though rather appallingly unscientific 
play. The Witching Hour, testifies to the 
same interest. 

Obviously, a safe elementary guide is 
needed for the study of a subject so full 
of pitfalls for the uninstructed ; and the 
need has been admirably supplied by Mr. 
Bruce. So new is the science of person- 
ality that much of its very subject-matter 
is still in dispute. Mr. Bruce will be 
criticised by the specialist, of whatever 
school, for a somewhat dogmatic method 
of statement, for occasional simplification 
by the expedient of ignoring troublesome 
factors. It is hard to see what else could 
be done in a book of this kind. The lit- 
erature of abnormal psychology, of 
spiritism and telepathy, is already vast; 
to have attempted to state the pros and 
cons even of one phase of the subject 
with any fulness would have been to de- 
feat the very purpose of the book. Sim- 
plification was absolutely necessary in 
this introductory work, and I do not see 
how the task could be accomplished with 
less falsification of essential facts. It is 
even well that the author should set forth 
frankly, as he has done, his personal bias, 
thus putting the reader on his guard, 
while at the same time both sides of the 
case are stated as fairly as possible. 

Mr. Bruce has recognised the danger 
he has run in attempting to unite under 
a common head two distinct lines of in- 
quiry, often represented as directly an- 
tagonistic. Roughly distinguished, one 
line has run in the direction of practical 
or therapeutic results; the other, in the 
line of metaphysical or religious results. 
The first concerns the study of mesmer- 
ism and hypnotism by such investigators 
as Mesmer, Braid, Charcot, Janet, Prince, 
and Sidis, and the application of their re- 
sults to the healing of mental and physi- 
cal disease. The second concerns those 
studies into the nature of personality and 
the evidence as to its survival after death 
which were practically begun in England 
by Sidgwick, Myers, Gurney, and Hodg- 

son, and continued in this country by 
James and Hyslop. The achievements of 
this latter group are more or less known, 
chiefly through the publicity that has at- 
tended the amazing results attained with 
the celebrated medium, Mrs. Piper. These 
experiments, which have been conducted 
steadily for more than twenty years and 
are still in progress, are fairly summa- 
rised by Mr. Bruce, although, unlike most 
of the investigators most closely con- 
cerned, he adopts the telepathic and not 
the spiritistic explanation. The histories 
of some of the earlier mediums, such as 
Home and Moses, are also given. 

It is the recent course of investigations 
in the other direction that has been less 
known, and the book is chiefly valuable 
for its outline of these investigations. 
Since Charcot's time enormous strides 
have been made in the treatment of dis- 
ease by suggestion, and the recently pub- 
lished books of Doctors Janet, Prince and 
Sidis record cures that sound miraculous. 
In this work France has shown the way, 
and the famous Salpetriere, of which Dr. 
Janet is now the head, is still the great 
clinic for the studv of nervous and men* 
tal diseases. But it is gratifying to know 
that America can claim at least two physi- 
cians whose work has placed them in the 
front rank — Doctors Morton Prince and 
Boris Sidis, of Boston. To Dr. Prince is 
due our knowledge of one of the most 
fascinating cases of dual personality; the 
famous "Miss Beauchamp. ,, Dr. Sidis 
has achieved remarkable success by a 
treatment based on suggestion through a 
process related to hypnotism, which he 
calls hypnoidisation. Mr. Bruce's pres- 
entation of the possibilities in this and 
kindred methods of treatment is possibly 
a little too optimistic, too neglectful of 
failures; yet those who are best ac- 
quainted with what these men have al- 
ready accomplished will be the last to 
place limits to what may be done. Un- 
questionably the record as it stands in 
these pages is suggestive and provocative 
of thought. Mr. Bruce supplies the 
means of correcting any possible exag- 
geration in his own account by giving in 
an appendix a bibliographical sketch of 
recent authoritative books on the sub- 
jects of which he writes. 

Edward Clark Marsh. 



Mr. H. M. Hopkins's "Priest and 

Pagan'' * 

It is no real criticism of a book to say 
that the theme is hackneyed. She was 
lovely and he fell in love. He fell in love 
over and over again, though not, of 
course, with the same she, the permuta- 
tions and combinations receiving only a 
temporary check at the marriage altar. 
Still, even in this sophisticated age there 
is room for an occasional surprise in the 
treatment of a well-worn theme. Priest 
and Pagan shows no such surprises, but 
moves along through the predestined 
number of pages to the foreordained con- 
clusion, not only with the end in plain 
view, but with the machinery of con- 
struction everywhere visible. 

The scene is laid in New York, 
whereby a certain illusion of unfamiliar- 
ity and distance is lost. More than that, 
to live in New York is one thing and to 
read about living in New York is quite 
another. Most New Yorkers think, in 
the back of their heads, that the man who 
said that he had rather be a lamp-post in 
New York than mayor of any other 
place, was a person of discriminating 
judgment ; but a book about Kingsbridge, 
the Bronx, One Hundred and Fifty 
Something Street, and the Harlem River, 
somehow suggests the idea of going to 
work in the morning. And this unpoeti- 
cal, not to say depressing, fancy is 
strengthened in Priest and Pagan by the 
continued rattle of the elevated road — 
we had a haunting fear lest it might be 
called the "L," but that, at least, was 
spared us — the processions of dust- 
coloured Italian labourers, the excavat- 
ing and blasting, and the mushroom 
growth of apartment houses, "with all the 
modern improvements." 

Josephine Faile, the heroine of the 
story, is very young, very light-haired, 
very blue-eyed, very uncertain tempered. 
In the beginning, she is engaged to the 
hero, Cyril Cresson, a young rector who 
is building a church on part of the dis- 
mantled Faile (Jumel) estate. She picks 
a quarrel with her lover and upbraids him 

♦Priest and Pagan. By Herbert M. Hopkins. 
Boston and New York : Houghton, Mifflin and 
Company. 1908. 

for "crueltv." The reader cannot for the 
life of him see where the cruelty comes 
in, but is given to understand that there 
is a deep, psychological reason for the 
estrangement. • Cresson and Josephine 
are both concealing something; he, that 
his mother was a Jewess; she, that she 
is doing a turn in vaudeville, as an 
imitator of the songs of birds. Thus 
"concealment like a cankerworm" gets in 
its deadly work. 

At this critical juncture, enter the vil- 
lain, a nondescript young man, fond of 
the Greek and Latin classics, who is sup- 
posed to have been drowned, and might 
have been so with the reader's entire 
good will. He is discovered by the hero 
on the steps of a tomb erected to his own 
"happy memory," and forthwith drops 
his name, George Berwyn, and takes that 
of a remote ancestor, Philip Le Strange, 
determined to do something worth while 
before he announces himself to his rich 
uncle as the long-lost heir. 

Josephine and Berwyn see each other 
a few times and then her secret is out. 
They see each other a few more times 
and Cresson's is discovered, to the great 
disappointment of the villain, who had 
looked for a violation of the penal code. 
Then they meet in the bird-house in 
Bronx Park, and we begin to understand 
why birds are so insisted upon. It is to 
smoothe the way for the introduction of 
Catullus's poem to Lesbia's sparrow, 
which bit of translation is, to our think- 
ing, the very best thing in the book : 

Little sparrow, her delight. 
With your eyes of amber bright, 

At a word 
You will fly your golden cage, 
When her grief she would assuage 

With her bird. 

When I see my darling smile, 
Lifting up her hand the while 

To your bite 
Can her tender heart divine, 
Can she know what woe is mine, 

At the sight? 

Then, when all the sport is past, 
And you fold your wings at last 

In her breast, 
Knowing that her love is true — 
Oh, that I might be as you, 

There to rest" 



Berwyn palms this off on the unsus- 
pecting Josephine as his own, and she is 
so taken with it (just as we were) that 
she consents to a runaway match. It may 
be, however, that the knowledge of Ber- 
wyn's wealth and "social position," for 
she knows his secret, has had, at least, a 
cumulative effect. 

Upon his marriage with Josephine, 
Berwyn drops his alias and resumes his 
fortune. They spend two years prowl- 
ing around Europe and Josephine be- 
comes her husband's "good comrade," 
"with just the touch of flippancy and 
hardness which such a relation develops." 
Then he loses his money in speculation 
(the last thing that such a man would 
do) and considerately shoots himself, 
leaving Josephine free to marry Cresson. 
This she proceeds to do, but not before 
she has received and all but accepted 
another offer of marriage from the 
slightly nebulous but very rich uncle 
of her deceased husband. One cinnot 
resist the feeling that she is quite un- 
affected by real emotion from first to 
last, because she is incapable of being so 

The most painful things in the book 
are its lapses from the je nc sais quoi of 
refinement and good taste; as, for ex- 
ample, when Josephine is spoken of as 
being "flustered" ; when she alludes to her 
mother as "mother"; when an architect 
is said to have drawn plans "on any piece 
of paper he chanced to have in his 
clothes," or when a man is seen "steer- 
ing" an attendant to a lady's chair at a 
reception. The author seems to share 
Josephine's opinion that Cresson is cruel ; 
whereas, in reality, he is only a clown. 
On one occasion, after her marriage, 
Cresson has told Josephine of the death 
of two Jewish house-painters by a fall 
from a scaffold, and ends the story with : 
"You didn't make any remark upon the 
fact that these two men were Jews. It 
was very tactful of you." To which she 
replies: "I shall never forgive you for 
that speech." And, on the next page, 
when she announces that she is going 
abroad in a few davs : 

"You're not going alone?" he asked. 
"That was cruel of you," she flamed out, 
"Perhaps so," he answered grimly. 

We leave it to the reader whether any- 
thing could be more hopelessly gauche. 

The book abounds in descriptions and 
in philosophical reflections which show, 
here and there, a quick touch of appre- 
ciation and insight ; as for instance : 

The thoroughfare [Nassau Street] pre- 
sented itself to his eyes as a deep gorge cut in 
the solid rock, the summits of the cliffs touched 
by the sun, which had not yet climbed high 
enough to reach the hurrying heads below. He 
entertained the odd fancy that these people had 
been walking thus for ages, until finally they 
had worn their pathway down to its present 

Or again, when the city is seen at sun- 
set lying to the south, "a mist of roofs in 
a glow that seemed to be the dust of men 
battling with one another." 

As a whole, Priest and Pagan lacks co- 
hesion, interest, almost human probabil- 
ity. It seems like an accretion rather 
than a growth, with a prescribed amount 
of description, conversation, incident, 
and classical allusion. The dialogue is 
heavy and sometimes in questionable 
taste; the characters are uninspired. 
But as the last page is turned, weariness 
yields to a malicious joy in the thought 
that Cresson, bad as he is, by marrying 
Josephine is likely to get "all that was 
coming to him." 

R. W. K. 


Mr. Howells's "Fennel and Rue"* 

A mere episode, Mr. Howells's new 
story belongs to that body of his lighter 
fiction wherewith he has long been ac- 
customed to spell himself from the seri- 
ous work on his American comedie hu- 
maine, which, from A Chance Acquaint- 
ance to Letters Home, now covers a 
full generation of our social growth, 
and with which this lighter fiction 
has nothing in common, except in so 
far as it almost invariably suggests some 
material discarded in the planning and 
the writing of the broader studies, but 
yet of sufficient interest and value to be 
"utilised, to be turned into "by-products," 
to borrow a term from the vocabulary of 
modern industry. Fennel and Rue is 

♦Fennel and Rue. By William Dean 
Howells. Illustrated by Charlotte Harding. 
Harper and Brothers. 8vo. 



such a chip from Mr. Howells's literary 
workshop, delicately carved and polished, 
yet, highly finished though it be, a by- 
product none the less. Indeed, one can- 
not help reflecting that the author's re- 
turn, in this story, to the minute analyti- 
cal method of his middle period, dis- 
carded for more broadly synthetic lines 
in his later books — in The Landlord at 
Lion's Head, The Kentons, and Letters 
Home — somewhat overweights the im- 
portance of the two cases of troubled 
conscience presented, but with that reflec- 
tion comes the recognition of the distinc- 
tion thus drawn by Mr. Howells between 
his social and his purely psychological 
studies, and with that an appreciation of 
the changed centre of interest. None the 
less, from the viewpoint of maturity, the 
question remains whether these two in- 
stances of inexperienced youthful con- 
science, of remorse out of all proportion 
to the offending, which is, after all, a sin 
against good taste rather than against 
ethic, are quite important enough to de- 
serve the acute analysis (dissection were 
the better word) which Mr. Howells has 
applied to them. Youth lacks the stand- 
ard of comparison which experience 
brings: hence its many poignant little 
tragedies. Mr. Howells would have us 
see these cases with the eyes of youth, 
making us, not so much forget our own 
experience, as remember our inexperi- 
ence of yore, but only to cause us to rec- 
ognise, in the retrospect from our peril- 
ous position half-way up the steep 
mountain of life, the insignificance of 
the forgotten molehills over which our 
own feet stumbled so grievously at the 

There are, however, other touches in 
the book that make it, like everything that 
Mr. Howells writes, so eminently well 
worth our while. His hero, like many of 
his predecessors, is a literary adventurer 
— a young man "beginning author" — with 
a first success to his credit, and conse- 
quently with a door to Society's draw- 
ing-rooms opened tentatively to him. The 
social relations between Art and Society 
with a capital S are viewed by Mr. How- 
ells with a touch of raillery, nor is the 
demure twinkle in his eye for Society 
alone ; quite the reverse. In Fennel and 
Rue he tempts us, as he always does, to 

venture much farther afield than he goes 
himself. There is a suggestion here, for 
instance, implied but not expressed, of an 
inquiry into the vanity of young authors 
as compared with that of young painters, 
for instance, or young composers. Mr. 
Howells mentions only the young actor, 
however, because, one may well believe, 
he wishes us to reach the conclusion, 
which is also probably his own, that the 
measure and the quality of the vanity de- 
pend chiefly upon the sex which bestows 
the recognition and the admiration. 
Again, he leads us to consider the socially 
reversible meaning of the now familiar 
terms "Sulphite" and "Bromide/' with 
the lesson deftly implied that an artistic 
sulphite may be a social bromide, and yet 
be puffed up all the more by the fact. 
The reader is left at liberty to guage the 
measure of the social success achieved by 
the young novelist of Fennel and Rue be- 
yond the two or three persons with whom 
the narrative brings him in close personal 
contact. His lion-hunting hostess is not 
sure of what he has done: she vaguely 
mistakes him for a new matinee idol of 
the same name. 

As for the plot of the story, that is 
based upon a readily remembered news 
item sent out some time ago by a pub- 
lisher's press agent, perhaps invented by 
that ingenious gentleman himself, per- 
haps founded on fact — the appeal, ad- 
dressed to the author of an interesting 
novel in the course of its serial publica- 
tion, to communicate its ending to a sick 
reader who feared that she would die be- 
fore the final instalment was printed, and 
felt that she could not depart in peace 
without knowing the solution of the 

A. Schade van IVestritm. 

Mr. Beach's "The Barrier"* 
This is a Virile Story. Alaska is a 
strong, virile country that breeds virile 
men. The obligations that this fact im- 
poses on the fictionist who ventures into 
the North country for his material are 
well understood; but Mr. Beach goes a 
step farther than the rules require. He 
has made even his heroine virile — "so 

♦The Barrier. By Rex Beach. New York : 
Harper and Brothers. 



dainty and yet so virile." In spite of her 
glowingly pictured beauty, the descrip- 
tion is not wholly inappropriate. She ap- 
pears on the scene as the daughter of a 
white trader and his squaw, and at cer- 
tain crises the savage blood in her comes 
to the surface. Later on you learn that 
the squaw is not after all her mother, that 
she is wholly white, and then you wonder 
about those savage instincts. 

A slight discrepancy such as this may 
actually furnish the key to Mr. Beach's 
story. These stirring tales of elemental 
passions usually bear evidence of origin 
in unsubtle minds. At the outset Mr. 
Beach wishes his reader to believe that 
his heroine is half savage; quite simply 
he represents her as possessing savage 
traits. So wholly is he under the dom- 
inance of his powerful imagination that 
he forgets she is actually no more savage 
— so far as blood is concerned — than you 
or T. Not for him the meaningless sub- 
tleties of "art," the lifeless refinements of 
style. The story's the thing — the story, to 
filch from the advertising man's vocab- 
ulary, that has good red blood in it, that 
strips off the veneer of civilisation from 
men and women, and shows us trie hot 
blood of untamed youth coursing in their 
veins. Here is a special brand of human 
nature, of which the effete dweller in 
towns knows nothing; and every man 
bears on his person the mark of his char- 
acter. Every villain has a villainous look, 
just as the hero is necessarily of heroic 
bearing. None but dark, sullen men are 
ever gamblers and desperadoes ; which is 
convenient, once you know the rules. If 
a story put together on these simple lines 
does not please the pallid academic critic, 
so much the worse for the critic. He 
has nothing better than good red ink in 
his veins anyway. 

In truth the critic who attempts to dis- 
cuss the literary shortcomings of The 
Barrier deserves the confusion that 
awaits him. He may prate of style, and 
construction, and consistency of char- 
acter. He may point out that mastery of 
the novelist's art is no light matter, that 
it comes not without study and observa- 
tion and long practice. Mr. Beach is here 
to confute him, with a book innocent of 
construction, scornful of grammatical 
propriety, callow and jejune in sentiment, 

but none the less successful in its kind, 
because it is "elemental." Let us dismiss 
the literary critic, and seek a just ap- 
praisement of Mr. Beach's wares at the 
hands of the advertising man, who after 
all knows what he is talking about. "It 
is a buoyant, bracing story — a story of 
primitive passions, of overpowering 
romance, of rough, picturesque condi- 
tions. Above all, it is the story of a great 
hate and a great love." 

Burton Bancroft. 


Mr. Morris's 'The Footprint"* 

Mr. Morris's book of short stories is 
one that tempts the reviewer to the giving 
of good advice. It is known that he is 
young; it is in evidence that he is pro- 
digiously clever ; it is indisputable that he 
has chosen in these tales to exercise his 
talent on subjects that will not endear him 
to the rabble. A number of these stories 
are frankly studies in the horrible or the 
terrible or the fantastic. It is on the 
whole a grewsome, macabre collection. 
Such morbid efforts have no rightful 
place in our healthy Anglo-Saxon litera- 
ture. No English author has ever 
achieved a real success who dealt with 
such matters — at least, none but Shake- 
speare and Marlowe, and Dickens and 
Hardy, and Foe and Hawthorne, and a 
few others of their ilk. It is plain that 
Mr. Morris ought to change his course, 
and turn his undoubted talents to the 
writing of stories more like those that 
the great American public is used to 

Nevertheless, I am glad that before 
mending his ways he has given us this 
volume. If tliese stories are not great, 
they are at least different, and their rather 
highly spiced originality is welcome to a 
jaded appetite. Nearly every one is a 
tour de force — a "trick" story, so to 
speak, in which some phase of a highly 
developed technic is displayed almost for 
it5 own sake. "The Footprint" is a sombre 
drama in which the setting of the desert 
is admirably realised; but the sharpness 
of the interest it evokes is due to the skill 
with which a supernatural element is sug- 

*The Footprint By Gouverneur Morris. 
New York: Charles Scribner's Sons. 



gestcd but never quite confirmed. "Para- 
dise Ranch" is a virtuoso study in mad- 
ness. "The Execution" is a curious refine- 
ment of horror ; both this story and "The 
Explorers" are sketches in the ironic 
mood. In "Simon l'Ouvrier" Mr. Mor- 
ris allows a fantastic idea to run its own 
course to an extreme that suggests fasci- 
nating possibilities. In all these stories 
the setting, the manner, the outer en- 
velope, remain wholly realistic. "The 
Little Heiress" is a delightful fantasy — 
not a story, but an extended paradox. Its 
whimsical tenderness supplies the needed 
relief in an otherwise rather strenuous 

In candour it must be admitted that Mr. 
Morris is far from being typically Ameri- 
can or English in his work. His models 
are plainly French, and there are discern- 
ible traces in more than one story of the 
French spirit. He is conspicuously witty, 
and his touch has at times a Gallic light- 
ness. Every story is striking in idea, 
nearly every one is refined in workman- 
ship. Not always is there solid substance 
behind them. One may read the volume 
through with a great deal of pleasure, 
and yet not wish the author to continue 
too long in precisely the same path. With 
three or four volumes to his credit, Mr. 
Morris has emerged from the ranks of 
beginners ; but he has by no means done 
the work yet that his abilities warrant us 
in expecting. Beyond the present pleas- 
ure to be had from The Footprint, it is 
welcome as showing its author on the 
road to better things. 

Ward Clark. 


R. Hugh Benson's "Lord of The 


Curiously enough, it has been reserved 
for a Roman Catholic priest, a recent con- 
vert to the ancient faith, to write the most 
interesting story of the "Looking Back- 
ward" type that has appeared for years. 
Usually such books are stupidity itseff, 
quite unreal, and entirely unconvincing, 
each author having some theory to ad- 
vance, some universal panacea to suggest 
for the present troubled state of society, 

♦Lord of the World. By R. Hugh Ben- 
son. New York: Dodd, Mead and Company. 

some remedy to recommend which will 
ensure a happier state of things. 

The story opens at the beginning of the 
next century, and is preceded by a pro- 
logue which explains the conditions in 
England at that time. Two priests are 
listening to an old gentleman who tells 
them of the beginning of Communism in 
England under the Labour Parliament of 
1917. The Established Church had dis- 
appeared in 1929, the House of Lords in 
1935. The whole world is divided polit- 
ically into three sections: the Eastern 
Empire, comprising all Asia and Aus- 
tralia; Europe, which includes Africa; 
and the American Republic, formed of 
the entire Western continent and the 
islands of the Pacific. The universities 
have fallen, as did the monasteries under 
Henry VIII. Protestantism has disap- 
peared, and all that is left of Christianity 
is the remnant of the Roman Catholic 
Church. Humanitarianism is the prevail- 
ing force, though the Eastern religions 
are still strong. Rome has been given 
over to the Pope in exchange for all the 
parish churches and cathedrals in Italy, 
and in that city and in Ireland Catholi- 
cism still lives. Although the Western na- 
tions have learned the folly of war, yet, 
at the opening of the story, things are 
looking ominous in the East, and rumours 
of trouble are heard on all sides. Then 
come the accounts of a wonderful man 
from America, who is doing his best to 
prevent such a calamity. No one knows 
anything about him, but he finally 
achieves a wonderful task, he pacifies the 
world, and the Universal Brotherhood of 
Man is an accomplished fact. He is 
made the President of Europe and hailed 
as the Saviour of the race by the en- 
thusiastic, while even to the more 
thoughtful it seems as if a new order of 
things were at hand in which righteous- 
ness and justice shall flourish and peace 
and love unite the hearts of all mankind. 

And then a plot is discovered on the 
part of the Catholics to blow up West- 
minster Abbev on the occasion of an 
idolatrous service to be held there, the 
first celebration of the compulsory wor- 
ship established by the government. Lon- 
don goes completely mad on hearing the 
news. The Archbishop, two bishops and 
eleven priests are hanged in the cathedral, 



churches and convents are sacked and 
burned. Every kind of violence occurs, 
and the government, yielding to pressure, 
permits the departure for Rome of sev- 
enty volors, armed with the most terrible 
explosives. These flying-machines, poised 
at a great height, carefully parcel out the 
■ city beneath them, and five minutes after 
they begin their work not a building or a 
human being remain in Rome. The Uni- 
versal Brotherhood of Man has failed at 
its first test. From this the story moves 
quickly to its striking end, the final ca- 
tastrophe taking place in the Holy Land 
and dealing with what is intended to be 
the complete extinction of Christianity. 
Father Benson's descriptions of life in 
the next century are wonderfully con- 
vincing, especially those of the great 

volors, which are the recognised means of 
passenger transportation, accomplishing 
one hundred and fifty miles an hour. The 
artificial sunlight, the underground dwell- 
ings, the Euthanasia ministers, whose 
task is to administer a painless death to 
the old and sick, all seem perfectly possi- 
ble, and the author is never tiresome, 
never unduly insistent nor too elaborate 
in explanation. But his ingenious story 
is a secondary matter to him ; what he 
wishes to impress on his readers, insist- 
ing upon it with passionate fervour, is the 
entire inadequacy of the purely human to 
satisfy the longing of the soul for the Di- 
vine, and that Altruism and Humanitari- 
anism are poor, substitutes for the direct 
relation of the soul to God. 

Mary K. Ford. 




T was not for a moment 
to be supposed that such 
a piece of news as Frank 
Carey's sudden return, 
with all its subsequent 
developments, could be 
lost to Waterford ears. 
By eleven o'clock half the Careys' friends 
were posted in details of the affair, true 
or false as the case might be ; and at half- 
past eleven Mary Norris appeared at 
Lady Lane, alert to follow the trail of 

It was Daisy herself who opened the 
door to her familiar knock ; and, taking 
her arm in mysterious silence, drew her 
into the now empty dining-room. 

"Well," she said, breathless with her 
news, "have you heard anything?" 

Mary pulled off her chamois gloves 
and tossed them on to the table, where 
the remains of breakfast bore witness to 
a demoralised household. 

•Copyright, 1907- 190S, by 

"Anything?" she said. "Well, I should 
think I have!" 

"Wait a minute !" Daisy ran back and 
closed the door carefully. "Now, what 
is it? What are people saying?" 

"Saying? What aren't they saying?" 

"Oh, Mary, what?" 

"Well, first of all, the Buckleys joined 
me after mass, simply brimming over 
with curiosity, and asked me if it was 
true that Frank Carey had met Isabel 
Costello while she was at school and had 
followed her over here, and that Miss 
Costello herself had turned him out of 
the house at nine o'clock this morning? 
That was bad enough, goodness' knows ! 
but then, just as I was coming down 
Lady Lane, who should rush out at me 
but that horrid old Miss Green to say 
that she had heard Frank was barely 
recovering from malaria and had been 
ordered back to his native air, and that 
she had seen him herself arriving this 
morning, looking like a person risen 
from the grave I Oh, I've had a time of 
Katherine Cecil Thurston 



it, I can tell you ! But what's the truth, 
Daisy? What on earth is it ? Is he hon- 
estly here? ,, 

Daisy had sunk into a chair under the 
weight of Mary's information, and now 
she looked up with bewildered eyes. 4 'Oh, 
yes, it's true enough! He's upstairs 
now, walking up and down his room and 
groaning out loud. I think he's half off 
his head." 

Mary made a gesture of contempt. 
"Frank always was a fool ! But what on 
earth has brought him back?" 

"Honestly, I hardly know! Stephen 
was so cross after being shut in here with 
him for half an hour, that he banged out 
of the house as if everything in the 
world was upside down."" 

"And didn't he explain ? Didn't he say 

"Oh, I saw him for about two minutes, 
and he just muttered something about 
Frank being an ass, who couldn't take 
'no' for an answer — and that I was to 
hold my tongue about the whole busi- 

"Upon my word !" was Mary's expres- 
sive comment. Then she turned her 
head sharply. "Hallo, Daisy! Wasn't 
that the hall-door bell ?" 

Daisy looked aghast. "Oh, no, surely ! 
Would I have time to run upstairs?" 

"You wouldn't now, I hear Julia open- 

"Heavens ! And if it's anybody, she'll 
have them in here in two seconds ! And 
look at the state I'm in! And look at 
the table !" Her voice quivered with con- 

Mary held up a warning finger. "Lis- 
ten! I believe it's Mrs. Power! Yes, 
it is!" 

"Oh, how absolutely sickening! What 
an idiot Julia is !" Then Daisy turned, all 
smiles, as the dining-room door opened. 

"Oh, Mrs. Power! How are you!" 

Mrs. Power came forward with both 
hands out, and kissed her effusively. 
"My dear!" she cried, "I can't tell you 
how relieved I am to see you looking so 
well; I hear you've gone through a ter- 
rible lot! How are you, Mary! I saw 
you at mass; but you're like quicksilver, 
I can never overtake you. And now, 
Daisy, what on earth is it all about?" 

Daisy drew forward a chair, at the 

same time trying distractedly to decide 
how much she should reveal and how 
much she should withhold. "Won't you 
sit down, Mrs. Power!" 

"Thank you, dear ! And now tell me 
everything from the very beginning." 

Here Mary stepped into the breach. 
"But, Mrs. Power," she said, "the worst 
of it is that we know so little ourselves. 
Won't you first tell us what you have 
heard ?" 

"Heard ? My goodness, Mary ! What 
haven't I heard ? But just tell me, Daisy, 
is it really true that he met her in Paris 
and fell in love with her there ?" 

"He did meet her in Paris with her 
aunt," Daisy admitted guardedly. 

"And are they engaged? Do tell me 
that ? Are they engaged ?" 

"No, Mrs. Power. They are not." 

Mrs. Power leant back in her chair. 
"Exactly what I said myself! It's just 
the gossip of a place like this. But there 
you are! You can't stop people saying 
nasty things." 

"What about ?" Daisv was up in arms. 
"What about, Mrs. Power ?" 

"Oh, well, 'tisn't worth notiping things 
like that. I never listen to them myself." 

"Still I'd rather know them. What are 
people saying?" 

"Oh, well, indeed, Daisy, they're say- 
ing things about you and Stephen. But, 
as I say " 

"About us?" 

"About Daisy?" Mary cried. "What 
on earth for?" 

"Mrs. Power, what are they saying?" 

Mrs. Power arranged the strings of 
her bonnet. "Well, Daisy, Til give it to 
vou, word for word. What I heard was 
that Frank and Isabel Costello were en- 
gaged, and that when Isabel came back 
to Water ford, you put your foot down 
and wouldn't hear of the match because 
she has no money ; and that Stephen was 
seen going into Miss Costello's on Sun- 
day after last mass. Mind you, I'm only 
repeating what I heard !" 

"Oh!" Daisy stamped her foot with 
vexation. "Oh, how annoying! How 
sickening I" 

"Of course it is, my dear! But there 
you are!" 

"I wonder if Isabel herself spread the 
story !" 




"Oh, fie, Mary ! As if she'd do such a 

Mary shrugged her shoulders. 

"Oh, how annoying ! How annoying !" 
Daisy said again. 

"Ah, now don't! You'll make me 
sorry I told you at all. Make the best 
of it! Make up your mind what you're 
going to do !" 

"I don't know what to do. Stephen 
will be furious." 

'Will I give you a bit of advice?" 

'Do! Oh, do! You're awfully good 
at knowing the right thing." Daisy re- 
vived at the prospect of help. 

"Well, then, my advice is to be as nice 
as ever you can to Isabel. Ask her 
here while you are in town ; and as soon 
as you go out to Kilmeaden have her to 
stay with you there." 

"Oh, Mrs. Power, not Kilmeaden!" 
Mary cried. "She needn't have her at 
Kilmeaden !" 

"And why not, dear ?" 

"Because Daisy always has who she 
likes there. It's the country and — 
and- " 

"Oh, I don't know, Mary !" Daisy ob- 
jected suddenly. "Perhaps Mrs. Power 
is right. After all, if we have her here, 
people won't notice it so much ; but if we 
ask her to Kilmeaden they'll say she must 
certainly be friends with us." 

"That's it, Daisy ! That's what I say. 
And now, like a good girl, tell me about 
Frank. He really is here, isn't he ?" 

"Oh, yes; he's upstairs now! He 
wanted a rest, you know, after the jour- 

"Poor fellow ! To be sure he did ! I 
suppose Stephen is delighted to have him 

Oh— oh, yes ! Delighted." 
And, Daisy, dear — " Mrs. Power 
drew her chair close to Daisy's and 
dropped her voice to the confidential key. 
"Daisy, dear, tell me now if it's at all 
true that he's really in love with her ?" 

Daisy hesitated, mindful of Stephen's 
warning, mindful too of Mary's deter- 
ring eyes; then the unspeakable joy of 
imparting such a story broke down all 

"Mrs. Power," she said, "it's the most 
deadly secret,- and there isn't another 
person living that I'd tell it to; but if 



you'll give me your solemn promise not 
to breathe a word of it — " And so the 
story was told. 

Before a week had passed all Water- 
ford knew for a certainty that Isabel 
Costello and Frank Carey had seriously 
contemplated marriage; and that, for 
some unknown reason, Frank had re- 
turned unexpectedly to his native town, 
and was now in hermit-like seclusion in 
Lady Lane — with his engagement, and 
presumably his heart, irrevocably broken. 
Now, whatever the secret streams that 
may issue from a w r ound dealt by Cupid, 
only one expression of opinion is likely 
to be obtained from the public — namely, 
a deep and protracted study of the lady 
in the case. So while Frank, lovelorn 
and disconsolate, pined in his solitude, 
Isabel saw new vistas opening in her 
social world, and the ten days that fol- 
lowed the eventful morning found her 
playing tennis at the Powers', croquet at 
the Burkes* and being initiated into the 
mysteries of cards at the Nevilles' and 
the Norris's. Everywhere she went she 
was stared at, whispered about, and made 
much of, for a girl who has broken an 
engagement in an atmosphere where 
marriage is not easy of attainment must 
of necessity have a claim to considera- 
tion. There is a good deal of the child 
in the Celtic nature, in the sense that the 
eyes and the ears are caught by the pass- 
ing show; and that, also like the child, 
the sound of a new drum will send the 
feet racing down a side street at the heels 
of a fresh crowd. Some of the mothers 
may, perhaps, have had secret misgivings, 
wondering in their own minds whether 
it was entirely right that a girl should be 
socially in evidence while her rejected 
lover was still in the same town; but if 
they had doubts, their sons had none, and 
their daughters, from sentiment or ex- 
pediency, saw fit to have none either — 
and Isabel was the attraction of the hour. 

For Isabel herself this success was not 
without result. As on the nieht of her 
first dance, she expanded in the sun of 
admiration as the butterfly spreads its 
wings to the summer heat. On a larger 
stage she enacted again the scene that 
Carey's first coming had interrupted on 
the night at Fair Hill, when the little 
group of men had clamoured for her 



programme. In those pleasant days she 
tasted adulation for the first time, know- 
ing the joy of giving and withholding, 
seeing the moves in that subtle game 
where the head directs while the heart 
beats steady; and all the time there was 
the consciousness that sooner or later the 
real man would step out from this back- 
ground of shadows, drawing her with 
him into the real world; as she laughed 
and talked and jested this consciousness 
was alive — a flame burning out of sight, 
ready to leap up and scorch. Some day, 
some moment, the call would come, and 
her nature would flow out, an unsluiced 
current flooding toward the sea. And 
in the meantime? In the meantime, she 
was young and she was alive ! 


Although Isabel had been going to and 
fro for nearly a fortnight in the Careys' 
intimate circle, she had heard no definite 
news of Frank. Either from that hyper- 
sensitiveness that the Irish feel about ap- 
proaching a delicate subject, or because 
there was no real friendship to warrant 
the intrusion, people avoided the matter 
altogether or skirted carefully round it 
when she happened to be present ; so, al- 
though she knew vaguely that Frank was 
still at Lady Lane, she was entirely ig- 
norant of the mental conflict that was 
going forward between the brothers. 

Carey she had not seen since the night 
of the dinner party; from Frank himself 
no word came; while Mary and Daisy 
preserved a resolute silence on the sub- 

It was not until the eleventh day that 
the position was made clear to her. She 
had been playing tennis all the afternoon, 
and only returned to New Town to hurry 
through the tea that in such households 
as Miss Costello's takes the place of din- 
ner, and to change her dress for an even- 
ing party at Fair Hill. She was flushed 
with exercise and in high spirits when she 
entered the house, and the gay tune of a 
song that had caught her fancy rose to 
her lips, as she crossed the little hall and 
laid her tennis racket on the old-fashioned 

"Miss Isabel/' ventured the slovenly 
maid who had admitted her, "there's a 
letter for you. It come bv the last 
post, an' I put it in the drawer in the 

"For me, Lizzie? Who from, I won- 
der!" Isabel hastily pulled the drawer 
open and took up the envelope bearing 
her name. The handwriting was unfa- 
miliar, but the postmark was Waterford, 
and her first feeling was of relief that at 
least it was not from Frank. Then sud- 
denly, by the suggestion of ideas, a flash 
of intuition enlightened her ; she blushed, 
and with an almost nervous haste put 
the letter, unopened, into her pocket. 

"Is tea ready, Lizzie?" 

Lizzie, who cherished romantic ideas, 
looked disappointed. "Oh, yes, miss! 
Tea is on/' she said. 

"Is Aunt Teresa in the parlour?" 

"Yes, miss ; she's goin' on with it." 

Isabel received the information with a 
nod, and passed on into the little sitting- 

At sound of her entry, Miss Costello 
looked up from her meal, which con- 
sisted of strong tea, bread and butter and 
a boiled egg. "Well, Isabel !" she said, 
"you seem very pleased with yourself. 
Did you win the game of tennis ?" 

At another time Isabel would have re- 
plied that she had played seventeen 
games and won eleven ; but now she 
merely walked round the table and im- 
printed a kiss on Miss Costello's fore- 

"I did grandly, auntie. 'Twas a 
lovely day." 

"Who was there? Will you have an 
egg for your tea, or would you like a 
chop cooked?" 

"An egg will do." Isabel seated her- 
self and began to cut a round of bread 
from the loaf on the table. 

"Well, and who was there? I never 
knew such a girl ! You don't tell a per- 
son a thing." 

"Oh, auntie, indeed I do !" 

"Well, then, who was there to-day?" 
Miss Costello rose and, opening the door, 
called down the passage, "Lizzie, boil 
another eggl" 

"Well?" she repeated, as she seated 
herself again. 

Oh, let me see f The Nevilles and the 




Cranes and some of the* Power boys — 
and Mary Norris." 

"And who did you play with ?" 

"With Willie Neville some of the time, 
and some of the time with Owen Power." 

"With Owen Power? And how did 
Mary Norris like that? Everybody said 
last year that he was going in for her." 

"Well, I don't think he spoke two 
words to her to-day." 

Miss Costello's black eyes took a hur- 
ried survey of her niece. "Isabel," she 
said severely, "I hope you're not a flirt." 

"Aunt Teresa!" Isabel's temper flared 
up, and then, for some mysterious reason, 
died down again, and was replaced by a 
sunny laugh. "Why, auntie?" she sub- 
stituted in a coaxing voice. 

"Because you ought to be very careful 
after what has happened." 


"Because people might talk." 

At this juncture Lizzie entered with 
the egg, and Isabel was helped to a cup 
of the strong tea; but immediately they 
were alone again she reverted to the 

"Auntie," she said, "I told you be- 
fore that I don't mind one scrap whether 
people talk or not. I suppose it's my 
nature, but it doesn't seem to me to mat- 
ter, as long as you can please yourself 
and be happy, whether people speak about 
you or don't. I try and try to work my- 
self up to being terrified of their talk, 
but it's no good. I can't." She paused 
in her healthy consumption of bread and 
butter, and stared into her aunt's face 
with her bright, eager eyes. "Am I very 
queer, Aunt Teresa ?" 

Miss Costello stirred her tea nervously, 
for she disliked these searching ques- 
tions. "Well, any priest will tell you that 
you must consider your neighbours !" she 

"I know. But supposing your neigh- 
bours don't seem half as real to you as you 
seem to yourself? Supposing you can't 
keep thinking of whether this is wrong, 
or that is wrong, no matter how hard you 

"Your conscience will tell you that." 

Isabel was silent for a moment; then 
the questioning glance flashed back to her 
aunt's face. "Auntie, what exactly is 
conscience ?" 

Miss Costello dropped her spoon in per- 
fectly unaffected horror. "Good gracious, 
child! You don't mean to tell me that 
the nuns didn't teach you that ?" 

"Of course they taught me in a set sort 
of a way, but that's not what I mean at 
all ! I mean how do you really and truly 
know when a thing is right or wrong?" 

Miss Costello's lips tightened. "Do 
you mean to say you don't know when 
you commit a sin ?" 

"Oh, I'd know if I told a lie, and I'd 
know if I stole anything, of course, be- 
cause 'twould be a fact, and I couldn't 
help knowing it. But what I mein is 
that I don't feel things to be wrong here." 
She touched her breast lightly. "I re- 
member the nuns in Dublin used to talk 
about people having 'qualms of con- 
science,' but I never really understood 
what it meant. Am I very queer ?" 

Miss Costello finished her tea hur- 
riedly. "Yes, you are," she said agi- 
tatedly; "and a young girl like you has 
no business at all to talk about such 
things. Leave them to those that know 
better." She set down her cup with a 
rattle and, leaving her niece to ponder 
this wisdom, walked out of the room. 

Left alone, Isabel took her letter from 
its hiding-place and looked at it, turning 
it over and over in her hand, then with a 
little smile, meant for herself alone, she 
slipped it back into her pocket and fin- 
ished her tea with a certain slow enjoy- 

In her own room, with the door locked, 
she at last felt free to dethrone imagina- 
tion for reality, and, sitting on the side of 
her bed, she drew the letter forth once 
more and slowly opened the envelope. A 
minute sufficed for the reading of the 
enclosure, a. very short, very common- 
place note, which merely ran : 

Dear Miss Costello: I have at last 
brought my brother to see reason, and he 
goes back to Paris to-night. I did not 
write before because I had nothing defi- 
nite to report. Believe me, 

Sincerely yours, 

Stephen Carey. 

The first feeling that coursed through 
her mind was keen disappointment; the 
curtness, the formality of the letter came 
like sharp blows on the malleable soil of 



her sensitiveness. He might have said a 
word of gratitude ! He might have sent 
one kind message ! She sprang from the 
bed in sudden anger, tossed the letter 
upon the dressing-table, and with quick, 
resentful movements began to take down 
her thick black hair and re-dress it for 
the night's festivity. Her fingers worked 
rapidly, brushing, coiling, pinning the 
long black strands, until at last the work 
was done; then, with the same resentful 
haste, she slipped off the blue cotton 
shirt she had been wearing, and throwing 
open the door of her wardrobe, stood 
considering what she should put on. The 
choice was not very extensive ; she looked 
at the white cashmere and the blue serge, 
her uniform dresses that had been length- 
ened for her by a New Town dressmaker 
since her return from school, and both 
were instantly condemned ; next came the 
pink muslin, but that had seen consider- 
able service in the last few weeks and 
already drooped pathetically; next came 
a couple of blouses and a black alpaca 
skirt that had belonged to her aunt, but 
her eye was full of disfavour as it fell 
on these, and turned instinctively to the 
last remaining garment — a plain mauve 
linen dress, more suitable for morning 
than for evening wear, but which fitted 
her well, and found added value in her 
estimation by reason of being her latest 

She had worn this dress on the morn- 
ing of her interview with Frank, and at 
another time, perhaps, the disagreeable 
association would have made her shrink 
from putting it on; but to-night her 
anger and disappointment gave immunity 
from such superstitions, and without hesi- 
tation she took the skirt from its hook 
and slipped it over her head. A few 
minutes more completed her prepara- 
tions ; and with a last ghnce into the 
mirror at her flushed face and rebellious 
eves, she took her way toward the door. 
But at the door she stopped, hesitated, 
and with an air, half defiant, half shy, 
went back to the dressincf-tablc and 
picked up Carey's offending letter. As if 
ashamed of her weakness, she thrust it 
surreptitiouslv into her pocket ; and as it 
slipped into the hidden recess, her fingers 
touched something smooth and cold, and 
the expression of her face altered sud- 

denly — memory striving with surprise, as 
she withdrew her hand and brought to 
light the little bottle she had wrested 
from Frank a week ago, and had for- 
gotten in the stress of newer events. 

She stood for a moment, unpleasantly 
moved by the sight of this small object. 
With the fascination of all deadly things, 
the harmless-looking tabloids held her 
gaze; she looked at them with a close, 
repugnant curiosity ; she shook the bottle 
until they rattled against the glass; she 
even drew the cork and allowed one to 
roll out upon her palm. 

She looked at it as it lay there — one 
key of the many that could open the 
great gate — and for a moment the 
shadow of its potency fell on her chill- 
ingly. The personal contemplation of 
death had always been abhorrent to her; 
with an almost superstitious dread, her 
keen vitality had always recoiled from it. 
Death existed, certainly ! Existed for 
the old, for the exhausted, for the unfit, 
but not for health and youth — not for 
such as she ! 

She remained a moment longer, held 
by the small white tabloid in her hand; 
then, by some curious working of the 
mind, an overwhelming repugnance 
surged over her ; she dropped it back, ran 
across the room to a cupboard in the 
wall, and thrusting the bottle into a 
drawer, locked it out of sight. 


Many emotions chased each other 
through Isabel's mind as she made her 
way to Fair Hill; and as she walked into 
the room set aside for the guests' wraps, 
the little group of girls already assembled 
glanced round at her expressive face with 
the mingled curiosity, admiration, and 
uncertainty that she always aroused. 

Mary Norris, who had taken up her 
position at the dressing-table, saw her in 
the mirror, and addressed her without 
turning round. "Hallo, Isabel 1 Is that 
a new dress?" 

Isabel laughed. "Nearly new," she 

"And is the mauve by way of 




' Mourning ? How ?" 

Mary carefully took a little powder 
from a box on the table and dabbed it on 
her cheeks. 'The king is dead! Long 
live the king!" she said in her most ag- 
gravating voice. 

"Mary is sarcastic, so she's putting on 
powder," said Amy Hennessy, the pretty 
girl with the impertinent eyes, who had 
criticised Isabel on the night of her first 

Mary turned round indignantly. "This 
isn't powder, Amy, it's crushed starch." 

No one offered to challenge this Jesu- 
itical statement; but Amy pushed past 
her to the glass. 

"Well, let me see my hair, anyway! 
What's to go on here to-night ?" 

"Bridge — for those who have brains 
to play it," said Mary promptly; 
"and the garden for those who haven't. 
Would you like a loan of my fur coat, 

There was a little titter of laughter at 
this, for it was diplomatic to be amused 
by Mary's sallies. 

"No, thank you, Mary!" Amy re- 
torted. "The conservatory will be quite 
good enough for me." 

There was a fresh laugh and chatting 
and chaffing, the girl's departed leaving 
Mary and Isabel alone. 

Mary put in a hairpin or two, and set- 
tled the black velvet ribbon at her neck 

"Frank Carey is gone back to Paris!'* 
she announced. 

"I know," said Isabel. 

"Who told you? Twas only to-day 
Stephen got him to see reason; and he 
shipped him off this evening, before he 
could change his mind." 

"I know. Mr. Carey wrote to me." 
Isabel took up a comb and arranged her 
hair, which had been blown into untidi- 
ness by her walk. 

"Oh!" Mary stole a quick glance at 
her. "That was a condescension of 
Stephen's! Was the letter more than 
two lines long?" 

"I didn't count." 

"You should have. Stephen's letters 
always make me feel that he's missing 
the six-and-eightpence. Are you ready?" 

Passing out of the bedroom and down 
the stairs, the first person they came 
upon was Owen Power, lounging in a 

wicker chair in the hall and flirting with 
Amy Hennessy. Immediately they ap- 
peared he looked up, and with a superb 
lack of courtesy turned his back on his 
companion and came slowly across the 
hall. "Well, Mary!" he said. "Well, 
Miss Costello! You look very fit after 
your tennis!" 

Isabel, still smarting under Mary's sar- 
casms, seized childishly on the opportu- 
nitv to hurt. "How could I be tired," she 
said, "when I had such a good partner?" 

Mary glanced at her, amazed by the 
encouragement of her tone, and Power 
gave a self-conscious laugh. 

"Oh, I don't know about that ! I don't 
know about that !" 

He laughed again and twisted his short 
moustache. "What are you going to do 
to-night? I think myself it's much too 
hot for cards." He looked directly into 
her eyes; and then, bidden by some 
twinge of conscience, turned to Mary, in- 
cluding her in the question. 

Mary flushed, but her glance met his 
with level coldness. "Oh, do you think 
that?" she said. "I'm longing for a game 
myself. I'd be very sorry indeed to give 
up bridge for anything you could find in 
this house." With a quick, contemptuous 
nod, she passed him and crossed the hall 
to the dining-room. 

The two, left to themselves, were 
silent for a moment; then Power gave 
another empty laugh. " 'Mary, Mary, 
quite contrary !' " he quoted. "But that 
needn't spoil things for us." 

Isabel hated him for the words; but 
she hated Mary Norris more, so she ig- 
nored the lesser feeling and answered 
with a smile, 

"What are we going to do?" 

"Go out in the garden, of course, as 
soon as you've said how d'you do to the 
dragon !" 

They crossed the hall, as Mary had 
done, and passed into the dining-room, 
where Mrs. Burke and her two daugh- 
ters were hovering about a table set out 
with tea and coffee. Groups of people 
were clustering round the good things, 
eating and talking, while in- the distant 
corners of the room others were already 
sitting down to cards under the direction 
of Michael Burke. 

As Isabel entered the room at Power's 



side her mind suddenly leaped to interest, 
for the first person her eyes lighted upon 
was Stephen Carey, bending down to 
catch the voluble chatter of a little old 
lady in a grey silk dress. Carey was here, 
then! She smiled at Mrs. Burke, with- 
out hearing her greetings. Would he 
turn his head? Would he see her? The 
questions crossed and recrossed her mind 
in unanalysed confusion. 

She took her tea from Power's hand, 
laughing at some jest of his. Life was 
interesting again — full of zest, full of 

She lingered over her tea, her eyes 
glancing surreptitiously toward the tall 
figure and the characteristic head, while 
her tongue ran on in a stream of 
empty talk. At last she was compelled to 
set her cup down. 

"Won't vou have tea, Mr. Power?" she 
asked, hoping for an excuse to linger. 

Power looked worldly-wise. "Not 
me !" he whispered. "I've had a whiskey 
upstairs in the old man's room. Are you 
readv ?" 

She nodded. After all, Carey was 
in the house! They must meet, sooner 
or later! "Yes, I'm quite ready," she 
said; and with the buoyant sense that 
everything was still to come, she followed 
Power, as he edged a way round the 
table and out into the hall. 

At the open hall door they paused, and 
he looked at her. "Well," he said, "and 
so I'm to have a talk with you at last !" 

She laughed. "A talk? What have 
you got to say?" 

"Ah, wait and see! I have plenty to 
say to you !" He led the way down the 
steps, and as they crossed the gravelled 
drive, he took out his cigarette case. 
"Do vou mind if I smoke? Or, perhaps, 
you'll have a cigarette yourself? All the 
girls here smoke, onlv they don't pretend 

Isabel's eyes opened. "Do they, 
really? We used to smoke in Paris 
whenever we got the chance, but I 
thought they were too good here." 

"Lord, no! Won't you have one?" 

Her eye9- flashed. "I'd love to! Do 
you think I might?" 

"Why not? Come down here, and 
not a soul will see!" He pointed to a 
long dark alley leading off the avenue. 

For a moment she looked doubtful ; 
then, casting her misgivings aside, she 
turned as he directed. The path, which 
was known as the "Lovers' Walk," was 
thickly hemmed in by cedars and laurels, 
which even in dry weather kept the 
ground damp and the air moist and close. 

"It's a funny place!" she said, as they 
made their way onward. "I don't think 
I like it." 

"Oh, it's all right! It's a bit of the 
old garden — the only bit that has man- 
aged to hold on through Michael's im- 

"I don't think I like it. It has a creepy 

He laughed and edged a little nearer 
to her. " Afraid of ghosts, what?" 

"Ghosts ! As if I believed in ghosts !" 
Her voice was nervously sharp. "Aren't 
you going to give me the cigarette ?" 

"Do vou want it so soon?" 

"Of course I do. I came for it, 
didn't I?" 

Without further demur, he took two 
cigarettes from his case, and putting one 
between his lips, struck a match. 

"You light yours from mine! Matches 
splutter so much in here." He handed 
her the remaining cigarette, which she 
raised somewhat hesitatingly to her 

"I think I'll have the match," she said. 

"I tell you 'twill go out. It's as damp 
as anything under these trees." 

"Well, I think I'd rather " 

"What nonsense! Come along!" He 
made his own cigarette glow, and bent 
his face toward hers. 

Half uncertainly she stepped toward 

"That's no good ! You must pull on it. 
Look here, stand nearer!" He put his 
hand on her shoulder, and as the two 
cigarettes glowed, he looked straight into 
her eyes. 

"Do you know what an awfully pretty 
girl you are?" 

Isabel liughed, shaking his hand from 
her shoulder. "Am I ?" 

"Are you, indeed? I should think you 
are. But I'll tell vou what you are, too. 
You're a flirt." 

"Why should you say that?" 

"Why? Doesn't all Waterford know 
how you chucked poor Frank Carey?" 



"And because all Waterford says it, it 
must be true?" 

"Well, seeing is believing ! Come now ! 
Admit !" 

Isabel looked at him, and a certain 
triumph — half excited, half nervous — 
marked her sense of conquest. 

"And suppose I do admit ?" 

"Well, what do you think?" With 
a ready movement he caught her 

She freed herself sharply, and her 
laugh rang out high and excited. "Lis- 
ten !" she said quickly. "Listen ! There's 
somebody coming — somebody coming up 
the path." 

They both looked round, struck into 
silence by steps on the wet ground. 

Power muttered something uncompli- 
mentary to all intruders, and Isabel gave 
a little gasp. 

"Why, it's Mr. Carey!" she said. 

Carey came toward them down the 
dark path; he was walking very slowly 
and smoking a cigar. Reaching them, 
he half turned, as if to retrace his steps, 
but Isabel stopped him. 

"Mr. Carey! Mr. Carey, aren't you 
going to speak to us ?" 

His eyes travelled from the cigarette 
between her fingers to the shadowy fig- 
ure of her companion. 

"It's so dark — " he said, "I scarcely 
knew " 

"Oh, it's me — me and Mr. Power." 

"Ah ! Good-night, Power I" 

"Good-night!" Power said ungra- 
ciously. "I suppose you're like us — found 
the house too hot!" 

"Yes, I thought I'd desert for a while. 
I had no smoke after dinner to-night. 
But I mustn't inflict my company on 
you !" 

He was again turning, but Isabel took 
an impulsive step forward. "But — but 
we'd like you to stay." 

He paused. "Oh, no! Two is com- 
pany, you know !" 

"Well, if you won't stay, we'll go back 
with you." 

Carey laughed. "Will Mr. Power 
subscribe fo that?" 

Power ground his heel silently into the 

"Of course he will," Isabel answered. 

"Rather!" Power said rudely. "I must 

go back to the house, anyway. They'll 
be looking for me for bridge." 

"I see. Then will Miss Costello go 
back too ?" 

"No!" Isabel answered for herself. 
"I'll stay on with you; I want to finish 
my cigarette." And having settled the 
question, she led the way back to the ave- 
nue; and, with the cigarette ostenta- 
tiously between her lips, stepped to 
Carey's side while Power ran up the 
steps and entered the house. 

As he disappeared, Carey looked down 
at her. "I can't make you out!" he said 
in a slow, deep voice. 


He answered by another question. 
"Do you know that I saw you before you 

saw me: 


Just now?" 

He nodded. 

"Oh !" She flicked the ash from her 

"Don't you think you might wait till 
that poor beggar is decently out of the 
countrv before you begin turning other 

She stood silent. 

"Why do you flirt with men like 
Power? Why do you give them the 
chance to talk about you?" 

Her lashes lifted, and she shot a swift 
ghnce at him. "I don't know." 

44 You don't know?" 

"Something makes me." 

He stared at her — angry, perplexed, 
attracted. "Do you like this chap, 


"Then, good heavens, why do you let 
him take you out into the garden in this 
conspicuous way — give you cigarettes — 
actually make love to you under the eyes 
of anybody who might happen to pass 

"He wasn't making love." With an 
attempt at bravado, she raised the cigar- 
ette to her lips ; but before it could touch 
them, Carey seized it from between her 
fingers and threw it away among the 

She stared at him, and her pulses gave 
a sudden unaccountable throb. 
Why did vou do that ?" 
Because if nobody else will stop you 
from making a fool of yourself, I will." 





The words and the tone were harsh; 
but they had the inestimable worth of 
things wrung spontaneously from the 
speaker. Carey had never been so near 
to her as in that moment of anger. 

"And do you mind whether I make a 
fool of myself or not?" 

For one second he seemed on the brink 
of speech; then he turned away, avoid- 
ing her questioning eyes. "Never 
mind !" he said. "Come into the house !" 


It was the day following the evening 
party at Fair Hill — and Mrs. Michael 
Burke's "at home' , day. She was wait- 
ing in solemn state in the big drawing- 
room, while her daughters, Aileen and 
Angela, flitted here and there, altering 
the position of a flower vase, rearranging 
a book or a paper, lowering or raising the 
Venetian blinds. Aileen and Angela 
Burke were what is best described as 
"nice girls." Round-faced, red-cheeked, 
ridiculously like their father, they had all 
the sterling qualities of Michael Burke; 
and, like him, lived under the iron rod 
of their mother's rule. As they moved 
hither and thither now about the showy 
room, they kept up a little whispered duo- 
logue, which they interrupted every min- 
ute to take a furtive look at the stiff- 
backed chair in which Mrs. Burke sat 
reading a novel. 

"I wonder if any one will come to- 
day 1" Angela, the younger and brighter 
looking of the two, remarked, as she drew 
a peacock-feather fire-screen into prom- 
inence. "Wasn't last night awful?" 

"I didn't think 'twas bad." 

"Of course you didn't ! You were sit- 
ting on the stairs with Tom Norris. 
'Twas very different for me, having to 
play bridge all night with old Cusacke. 
Oh, dear! I'm sick of my grand rela- 
tions !" 

Mrs. Burke, whose hearing was as 
sharp as a needle, looked up from her 
book. "What are you talking about, 
children ?" 

"Nothing, mother!" 

"Then come down here near me, An- 
gela! I heard a ring at the door. If 

this is any one, Aileen, you can pour out 
the tea." 

"AH right, mother!" 

Mrs. Burke opened her book again. 
"I think Henry Cusacke may turn in 
later," she said. "If he does I hope you'll 
be nice to him. It's lonesome for the 
poor fellow away from his regiment." 

Angela, who had obediently dropped 
to a stool at Mrs. Burke's feet, pouted her 
red lips. "But, mother, I don't like him." 

Mrs. Burke patted her cheek. " Non- 
sense, darling ! You know nothing at all 
about your own mind. Just do as I tell 
you. Oh, here's Mrs. Carey ! How nice 
of you to come, Mrs. Carey ! And Mr. 
Norris! And Miss Norris!" She rose 
and greeted the guests with just the due 
amount of artificiality, while Daisy and 
Mary rustled forward toward the tea- 
table, carefully arranging their dresses 
as they sank into their chairs. 

"I suppose Stephen hasn't been here, 
Mrs. Burke?" Daisy said. 

"No. Is Mr. Carey coming?" 

"Yes. He promised that he'd call for 
us in the motor." She could scarcely 
conceal the pride that the announcement 
caused her. 

Mrs. Burke looked a little patronising. 
"Oh, the new motor ? I hear he drives it 
himself now. I hope he finds it more 
satisfactory than poor Mr. Leader did." 

Daisy smiled graciously at what she 
considered Mrs. Burke's natural jealousy. 
"Oh, it's the greatest success, Mrs. 
Burke. I'm afraid 'twas poor Mr. 
Leader's own fault that he had so much 
trouble with it. It takes somebody who 
understands these things " 

"No doubt, indeed! I hope you 
weren't tired last night." 

"Tired? We were just saying as we 
came up the avenue what a lovely party 
it was. Weren't we, Mary?" 

"That's what we want, Mrs. Burke, 
you know!" Tom broke in; "that old 
spirit of sociality that's dying out in Ire- 
land. I agree with my sister that I never 
enjoyed myself so much in all my life as 
I did last night." 

Aileen Burke blushed hotly behind the 
big silver urn. 

Mrs. Burke condescended to smile at 
his compliment. Tom might not be the 
pinnacle of maternal ambition, but, fail- 



ing other schemes, he was not to be de- 
spised. "That's very kind of you, Mr. 
Norris," she said affably. "I wish every- 
body was as easily pleased. Will you 
make yourself useful, now, and help the 
girls with the tea?" 

With great alacrity Tom retired to the 
tea-table, and presently the sound of 
muffled laughter gave proof of his awk- 
wardness and Aileen's chaffing criti- 

As the cups were being passed round 
by Angela the door opened again and 
Mrs. Power — large, florid and smiling — 
came forward into the circle. 

"Well, Ellen, I hear there was never 
such a party! Josephine can talk of 
nothing else. How are you, Daisy, dear ? 
How are you, Mary? And Aileen and 
Angela?" In her motherly way she kissed 
all the girls and then shook hands with 
Norris. "Indeed, Tom, I heard all about 
you; but we won't tell tales out of 
school !" 

Aileen once more sought shelter behind 
the urn, and Mrs. Burke gave one of her 
hard laughs. "What did Owen think of 
our bridge?" she asked, tactfully turning 
the subject. "I expect we seem very 
much behindhand after Dublin." 

"Indeed, I didn't see Owen since last 
night. He went on to some poker party 
or other after bringing Josephine home, 
and he wasn't up this morning when I 
was going out to mass." 

Mrs. Burke said nothing, but her face 
was eloquent in criticism of Mrs. Power's 
family management. 

Mary Norris laughed suddenly. "Oh, 
indeed, Owen was enjoying himself last 
night, Mrs. Power ! Wasn't he, Aileen ?" 
It was Mary's first contribution to the 
conversation, and it was given in her 
most telling vein. 

Aileen Burke gave an embarrassed 
little laugh. "I didn't see him at all, 

"Didn't you ? Oh, he had a very good 
time last night." 

Mrs. Burke looked severe. "I thought 
Owen was playing bridge all the time." 

"Oh, not all the time, indeed, Mrs. 
Burke ! He was out in the garden first." 

"Who with, Mary?" asked Mrs. 

Mary tossed her head. "Oh, I'm not 

going to say who with; but they went 
down the Lovers' Walk, and Lillie 
O'Farrell saw them both smoking cig- 

"Both smoking, did you say, Miss 
Norris?" Mrs. Burke asked, her back 
stiffening perceptibly. "I can scarcely 
believe that any girl in my house would 
do such a thing as smoke." 

Mary, who consumed many cigarettes 
a day in the privacy of her own room, 
looked becomingly grave. "Not in the 
house, Mrs. Burke. I said in the ear- 

Mrs. Burke's lips tightened. "I con- 
fess I don't see much difference between 
the two! And I'd like to know who the 
girl was." 

Aileen and Angela, themselves con- 
scious of stolen smokes, drew away be- 
hind the sheltering figure of Mrs. Power, 
but Tom Norris came forward into the 

"Don't, Polly!" he said. " 'Twould be 
mean. After all, what's in a cigarette ?" 

"Oh, nothing but a little paper and a 
bit of tobacco — if the girl happens to be 

*T think there's a great deal, Mr. Nor- 
ris, if you ask me," said Mrs. Burke se- 
verely. "I know that people are getting 
more lax every day, but for my part, I'd 
be very sorry indeed to see a daughter of 
mine smoking." 

"Oh, I don't know !" said Tom stoutly. 
"I don't see any harm in it." 

"Perhaps she picked up the habit 
abroad!" put in Daisy in her pretty, 
mincing voice. 

Mrs. Burke jumped to a quick con- 
clusion. "Abroad?" she said. "Abroad? 
Why, then it must have been Isabel! 
Miss Norris, was it Isabel?" 

Mary shrugged her shoulders. 

Twasn't I let the cat out of the bag, 
anyway !" 

Daisy laughed a little. "Suppose I 
oughtn't to have said it! But, really, 
Isabel seems to be getting herself so 
much talked about lately " 

" — That it doesn't matter how much 
more you say?" added Tom. "How like 
a woman!" 

"For goodness' sake, Tom, talk about 
something you understand!" said Mary 

n t 



Tom became mute and retired again 
to the tea-table, while Mrs. Burke drew 
her chair nearer to Daisy's. "I believe 
people are talking rather too much about 
Isabel/' she said in a lower tone. "Is it 
true, now, Mrs. Carey, that she really did 
treat your brother-in-law badly?" 

Daisy dropped instantly to the confi- 
dential key. "Well, indeed, Mrs. Burke, 
I don't like to say anything, but pool 
Frank looked more like a ghost than any- 
thing else that morning that he came 
down from New Town. I hardly knew 
him when he walked into the dining- 

"Yes, indeed, and everybody in Water- 
ford is saying that 'twas the Careys 
broke off the match," put in Mary. "It's 
awfully hard on Daisy." 

"And who minds what people say, 
Mary?" said Mrs. Power. 

"Not mind, indeed! You have to 

"Indeed you have," Daisy added. "A 
professional man like Stephen can't af- 
ford to be talked about; that's why it's 
doubly hard on me." 

"Well, Daisy, I told you how you 
could stop all talk." 

"I know, Mrs. Power. By asking her 
to the house." 

"And then have her going on like she 
did last night !" Mary supplemented. 

"Miss Norris, I insist on knowing 
where she smoked the cigarette," said 
Mrs. Burke, recalled to the thought of 
her own grievance. 

"In the garden, Mrs. Burke. Lillie 
O'Farrell went out for a couple of min- 
utes with one of the Goulding boys, and 
while they were walking up and down in 
front of the house, Isabel came out with 
Owen. Lillie says she was flirting 
dreadfully ; and she heard him offer her a 

"But what's in that, Mary I" Mrs. 
Power exclaimed. "Owen is always 
chaffing and going on. Who knows she 
ever smoked at all?" 

"Oh, yes, she did." 

"How do you know? Did Lillie fol- 
low them?" 

"Not very likely that she would!" 

"Then how do you know?" 

"I heard. Oh, there was a good deal 
more, only I don't want to say. 

"Oh, Polly, do tell us !" Daisy cried. 

But Mary closed her lips. "No; 1 
won't tell any more." 

"But, Miss Norris, do you think that's 
quite fair? Surely, when there is any- 
thing to tell, it's our duty to tell it for 
the good of others." 

Mary smiled enigmatically. "Some- 
times, perhaps, Mrs. Burke," she said, 
"but not always. Don't you think we 
ought to be going, Daisy? I'm sure 
Stephen had a puncture or something, 
and you know I have that appointment at 
Mrs. Clarke's." 

"Oh, wait a little longer !" Mrs. Burke 
urged. "He'll be here presently. You 
never can be up to time with a motor." 

Daisy looked inclined to yield, but 
Mary intervened again. 

"But dressmakers don't take that into 
account, Mrs. Burke," she said; "and 1 
have to try on a new dress at Mrs. 

Daisy rose reluctantly, and Tom tore 
himself away from Aileen. 

"What sort of a dress is it, Mary?" 
asked Mrs. Power, good-naturedly, inter- 
ested at once, and forgetful of the pre- 
ceding passage of arms. 

"Oh, it's only a linen for Kilmeaden, 
Mrs. Power. We're going down in a 
fortnight, you know." 

"Oh, yes! And I'm wanting Stephen 
to let me give a little dance at Lady 
Lane the night before we go," an- 
nounced Daisy, as she shook out her 
skirt and arranged her feather boa. 
"Everything will be put away for the 
summer, and it wouldn't be a bit of 

"Oh, Mrs. Carey, can't you persuade 
him?" cried Aileen and Angela simul- 
taneously. " 'Twould be simply heav- 
enly !" 

"Of course he'll let you, Daisy," said 
Mrs. Power. "Stephen is the soul of 
good nature." 

"If I were you, Mrs. Carey," advised 
Mrs. Burke, "I'd send out the invita- 
tions and not tell him a wortl about it till 
it was all settled. Men have nothing to 
do with things like that." 

Mary laughed sarcastically. "Say 
that to Stephen Carey, Mrs. Burke ! Are 
you coming, Daisy?" 

They shook hands all round, and with 



a great deal of chattering and laughter 
left the room. 

"I ought to be going, too, Ellen," said 
Mrs. Power, rising. 

"Nonsense, Kate! Sit down." 

"Ah, no ; I must really ! I have a lot of 
visits that are hanging over me for 
months ; and anyway, I don't like to keep 
the horse standing. Good-bye, Ellen! 
Good-bye, girls ! When are you coming 
to Skerrybeg? You're great strangers 
to us." 

"Indeed, it's too much amusement 
they have," said their mother. "Aileen 
is giving up her painting altogether ; and 
as for Angela, she never touches the 

"Perhaps they're beginning to think of 
other things ! I know a little bird whis- 
pered to me that it wouldn't be long be- 
fore we heard something about an en- 
gagement. Well, good-bye!" She 
passed out of the room smiling and 

"I don't know how Kate Power can 
bring herself to be so vulgar," said Mrs. 
Burke as the door closed. "And what a 
fool she has been over those spoiled, 
worthless sons of hers !" 

"Mother, wouldn't it be lovely if the 
Careys give the dance?" said Angela, 
her mind bent on her own affairs. 

"Indeed, if they do, your father will 
have to take you! I can't lose another 
night's rest." 

The girls exchanged a glance of secret 
joy, for it was a red-letter day when 
Michael Burke played guardian. 

"Mother," said Aileen suddenly, "do 
you think that was true about Isabel ?" 

Mrs. Burke looked severely judicial. 
"Well, I'd certainly be very sorry to be- 
lieve everything Mary Norris says," she 
replied; "but I have thought more than 
once myself that Isabel is rather free- 
and-easy in her manner for Water- 

"She's very pretty," said Angela with 
unconscious philosophy. 

"She's too dark for my taste. Besides, 
Angela, remember 'handsome is that 
handsome does/ " 

"Listen! Listen, mother!" Aileen 
cried. "I hear a motor. There's a motor 
coming up the avenue." 

"Oh, it must be Mr. Carey ! He must 

have just missed them." Angela rushed 
to the window. 

"It is! It is, mother! And guess — 
guess — do guess who's with him ? Aileen, 
come here ! Quick !" 

Aileen flew across the room to her sis- 
ter's side, overturning a footstool as she 

"What in the name of goodness is the 
matter?" exclaimed Mrs. Burke crossly. 
"One would think you never saw a 
motor in your lives.*' 

With a crunching of gravel, the car 
sped round the house, and a little cry of 
excitement and*interest escaped the girls. 

"Aileen! Angela! What on earth is 

But before either could collect herself 
sufficiently to give a coherent answer, the 
door of the drawing-room was thrown 
open and Isabel Costello, with her eyes 
dancing and her hair blown into elf-locks, 
walked into the room, followed by 
Stephen Carey. 


For one moment there was silence in 
the large drawing-room; then Mrs. 
Burke rallied her social qualities and met 
the situation. 

"Isabel! And Mr. Carey! This is a 
surprise. A very pleasant surprise !" she 
finished with scrupulous politeness. 

Carey stepped forward rather hur- 
riedly. "Isn't my wife here?" he said 
as he took her hand. 

"Oh, no! Mrs. Carey must be gone 
nearly ten minutes. How are you, Isa- 
bel?" She shook hands with each in 
turn. "No ; your wife got impatient, Mr. 
Carey — or, I should say, Miss Norris got 
impatient. She had an appointment at the 

"And, of course, nothing is so impor- 
tant as a dressmaker, Mr. Carey," said 
Angela, as the two girls came forward, 
stealing- furtively curious glances at 

The news of Daisy's departure seemed 
to disconcert him. He glanced round 
almost as though he contemplated flight. 

"She might have waited," he said. "I 
told her I'd be as soon as I could." 



"Indeed, he was flying up the hill when 
he met me," supplemented Isabel. "I 
felt quite guilty for stopping the car even 
for a minute, though the lift was too 
tempting to refuse." Womanlike, it was 
she who made the explanation of their 
presence — the explanation that instinct 
told her would be needed. 

"I should think so, indeed!" said 
Aileen kindly. "I wish I had been walk- 
ing up the hill !" 

Mrs. Burke looked a little severe. 
"Won't you have a cup of tea, Mr. Carey, 
now that vou are here?" 

Again Carey looked round uncomfort- 
ably. "Oh, I don't know that I ought !" 
Then, as his eyes strayed round the room, 
they lit upon Isabel, and unconsciously 
his expression wavered. "Well, thanks, 
Mrs. Burke!" he said. "Thanks! I will 
have a cup." 

"I'm glad you altered your mind! 
Aileen. see after Mr. Carey. Isabel, 
come here and sit near me." With the 
shepherding instinct of the mother, she 
drew the object of most danger to her 
own side. 

"Well, Isabel, and how do you like 
motor cars?" she asked, her eyes, pierc- 
ing as gimlets, searching the girl's face. 

"Oh, I simply adore them, Mrs. Burke ! 
This is the first I was ever in, and I 
thought 'twas like heaven." 

Mrs. Burke gave one of her stiff little 
smiles. "I hope heaven will be more 
peaceful, Isabel." 

Isabel threw back her head. 

"Oh, do vou, Mrs. Burke? I don't. I 
wouldn't care a bit for anything that was 
all peace and quiet." 

"You mustn't say that, Isabel !" 

"Why ? Is it any harm ?" 

"Well, it's a little* irreverent, isn't it?" 

"Is it? I didn't mean it to be. It only 
seems to me that heaven must be like all 
the loveliest things on earth, only a thou- 
sand times better." 

"The prophet's heaven?" said Carey, 
smiling, as he handed her her tea. 

Mrs. Burke coughed nervously. "I 
don't think girls ought to discuss the- 
ology, Mr. Carey. But perhaps I'm old- 

"Is this theology?" said Carey inno- 

She stiffened her shoulders. "Oh, you 

know what I mean. All that girls need 
know is that they must say their prayers 
and never give bad example." 

Isabel drank her tea, striving to keep 
a still tongue ; while Mrs. Burke, pleased 
at what she considered her well-timed re- 
proof, turned to Carey with greater 

'"Well, Mr. Carey, so you're off to Kil- 
meaden soon?" 

Isabel looked up. This was the first 
she had heard of the Careys' departure 
to the country. 

"Yes," said Carey. "My wife is 
anxious to get down early this year and 
come back in September. We found Kil- 
meaden rather damp last October." 

"That'll be very nice ! And you'll find 
the motor a great convenience, instead of 
having to drive up to town." 

"Will you shut up the house in Lady 
Lane, then?" Isabel asked. 

"Oh, my wife puts in a charwoman, in 
case any one wants to come to town for a 
night. But we live altogether at Kil- 
meaden — though I come up every morn- 
ing to the office." 

"Ah, there's no place like the country ! 
It's so good for the children," put in Mrs. 

Isabel finished her tea hastily and 
Carey laughed a little awkwardly. "Oh, 
yes!" he said; "yes!" 

"And what fine little fellows they are! 
I met them on the road the other day 
with the nurse. But Mrs. Carey tells me 
you're thinking of giving a little party 
before you go?" 

"Oh, mother, she only said they were 
talking of it." 

"But that's the same thing, isn't it, Mr. 
Carey?" said Angela, looking up at 
him with her good-natured smile. 
" 'Twouldn't be one bit of trouble, you 
know, once the house is upset. You'll 
let Mrs. Carey give it, of course; you 
will, now? Won't you?" 

"Oh, do, Mr. Carey!" chimed in 
Aileen. "We were saying only yester- 
day that there wouldn't be another dance 
this summer." 

Carey looked at Isabel. "Miss Costello, 
won't you stand up for me ! It isn't fair, 
you know, two to one!" 

"Oh, indeed, Isabel would love it! 
Wouldn't you, Isabel ?" 



Isabel's eyes met Carey's. "Mr. 
Carey knows I adore dancing." 

"And she's only had one dance since 
she came home. Oughtn't that soften 
your heart?" 

"Angela, you're very tormenting ! Let 
Mr. Carey alone!" 

"But, mother, it's his duty ! What has 
he a big house for if 'tisn't to give 
parties ?" 

"Indeed, you're a great tease! I won- 
der Mr. Carey puts up with you. Isabel, 
how is your aunt?" 

At this decisive changing of the con- 
versation the topic of the dance was 

"Oh, she's very well, Mrs. Burke, 
thanks," answered Isabel. "Only she has 
one of her bad headaches to-day. She 
said I was to excuse her. Only for it 
she'd have come up with me." 

"Oh, poor thing! And what is she 
doing for it?" 


"Nothing? What a mistake!" Mrs. 
Burke did a little amateur doctoring on 
homoeopathic lines, and took great pride 
in the results. "The minute you go 
home, Isabel, tell her she is to take a 
tumbler of soda water with the juice of 
a lemon in it, and if she's not well in 
half an hour she's to send up to me for 
a globule. Now, don't forget! How 
many simple cures there are, Mr. Carey, 
if we only knew them !" 

"Yes, indeed!" Carey murmured. 

"You may well say so! I believe my- 
self that it only requires a little faith and 
plenty of cold water to do away with 
doctors altogether! Isabel, you won't 
forget my message?" 

"Did you ever hear how mother gave 
father a Turkish bath in his own room ?" 
whispered Angela to Carey. 


She waited until her mother was 
launched on another series of direc- 
tions to Isabel, then she looked up at 
him, her round face brimming with 

"It was long ago," she whispered. 
"One time father had a cold. He was 
too bad to go out, so mother thought 
she'd give him a sort of Turkish bath in 
the house with blankets and a spirit lamp. 
He fought against it like anything, of 

course, but you know mother always has 
her way." 

Carey nodded. 

"Well, of course, father gave in ; but 
just as everything was arranged and he 
was packed up in the blankets some 
people called to see mother. As luck 
would have it, who should they be but 
Wexford people that she hadn't seen for 
years, so she told poor father to keep 
quite quiet, and not to imagine the spirit 
lamp was too high, and that she'd just run 
down and say 'How d'you do?' and be 
back again before he knew she was 
gone!" Here Angela went into an irre- 
pressible titter of laughter. 

"Well, what do you think happened? 
She went down, and in three minutes she 
was buried in all the old scandals that 
had happened in Wexford for the last 
twenty-five years, with every bit of 
thought of father gone out of her head !" 

Carey, seeing the picture of Michael 
over the lighting spirit lamp, powerless 
under his weight of blankets, went off 
into a peal of laughter. 

Mrs. Burke looked round. "Is Angela 
amusing you, Mr. Carey? She's a ter- 
rible chatterbox, I'm afraid." 

"Miss Angela is very entertaining, 
Mrs. Burke," he said. "I think she 
ought to be given her dance. Miss An- 
gela, what was the end?" 

Angela looked at him mischievously. 
"Oh, father had escaped back to bed by 
the time she came up," she whispered; 
"but most of the blankets were still on 
'fire! But you won't go back of your 
word about the dance? Promise, now, 
you won't!" 

At this juncture Isabel stood up. "I 
think I must be going," she said. "Good- 
bye, Mrs. Burke!" 

To everybody's surprise, Carey put 
down his cup and rose also. 

"What, Mr. Carey! Are you going, 

"If Miss Costello will let me I'll drive 
her home." 

Isabel turned to him, all pleasure, all 
delight, in a moment. "Oh, no! Why 
should I ?" 

"But why not ? A foretaste of heaven 
is good for the soul!" 

She laughed yieldingly. 

"I'm sure it will be very pleasant for 



her to be driven home," Mrs. Burke 
put in rather frigidly. "Don't forget 
about the lemon for your aunt's head, 

"No, Mrs. Burke !" Isabel's mind was 
speeding to other things as she shook 
hands all round. 

"Good-bye," cried Angela cordially. 

"Good-bye," added Aileen. "We'll 
come out and see you off." 

"No, children, I think you'd better not. 
There's a treacherous fog these evenings, 
and you both had sore throats last week." 

The girls looked disappointed, but 
neither offered to oppose the mandate. 

"Well, we'll look at you through the 
window," said Aileen. 

"And don't forget the dance, Mr. 
Carey!" Angela cried as the two guests 
disappeared into the hall. . 

The setting in motion of the engines 
was the work of a moment, and with a 
good deal of skill and precision Carey 
swept the car round the open, gravel 
space at the corner of the house. 

In a vague flash he saw the faces of 
the Burke girls pressed against the draw- 
ing-room window, but the impression 
passed with the presence of the house, 
and he drew in a quick, deep breath of 

"What a woman !" he said. "What an 
atmosphere!" It was remarkable that 
he spoke his thoughts as though he were 
alone ; that by some hidden link of com- 
radeship he did not question whether 
Isabel would understand. 

"Yes, I know!" she said quickly: 
"Don't you feel that you can't stand it 
for one second longer — that you must get 
up and scream in the very middle of 
what she's saying?" 

Unconsciously Carey checked the pace 
of the car, and they passed almost slowly 
through the gates. 

"Good God!" he said, "I've sometimes 
felt that no man in his senses would 
stand this life for a single year! Talk 
of rats in a trap !" 

They swerved out into the high road ; 
but instead of turning down the steep 
hill that led directly into Waterford, he 
drove straight on, making a detour. 

Isabel sat with her hands clasped 
loosely in her lap, every nerve quivering 
to the moment. 

"Have you wanted to get out into the 
world, then?" she said. 

"Yes ! Lord, yes ! There was a time 
— but what's the good " 

Her glance dropped to his hands, 
strong and steady on the steering wheel. 
4 Won't you tell me?" she whispered. 
"I'd— love to hear." 

There was nothing to alarm in the low, 
enticing voice, and he yielded, half un- 
consciously, to its persuasion. "Oh, it's 
only that I built my castles once!" he 
said, "and that with half a chance I 
might have made my way. A man isn't 
a man in a place like this! What sort 
of a life is it? Stagnation. The same 
round, the same faces, the same work, 
autumn, winter and spring, and in the 
summer — Kilmeaden !" He gave one of 
his sarcastic laughs. 

"But if you liked you could go away — 
you have money." 

For answer he increased the speed of 
the car, sending it spinning forward. 
"Miss Costello," he said, "look at the rut 
at the side of this road ! If I ran the car 
into that rut we'd have to get ropes and 
men and horses to drag her out; 
'twouldn't help her one atom that she's 
forty horse-power in herself." 

She grasped the simile, and followed 
it up. 

"Yes, but you'd get the car out, how- 
ever you managed it!" 

"Ah, you're right there. And perhaps 
I've had thoughts for myself, too." 

She felt her senses quicken at the sud- 
den fire that touched his voice, glowing 
up through his words, and her impetuous 
nature leaped to a response. 

"Oh, I wish you weren't going away !" 

Carey reddened — reddened as though 
no span of years or tale of responsibili- 
ties had sealed the book of youth. "Why 
do you say that ?" he asked in a low, con- 
trolled voice, from which he resolutely 
shut out the eagerness, the curiosity that 
were welling in his mind. 

"I don't know. Because — because 
you're different from the others — and I'll 
miss you." 

The subtle flattery moved him. "You'll 
miss me? Do you mean that?" 

She nodded silently; and as he turned 
to catch her expression his glance rested 
on her eyes, with their thick black lashes 



— on her warm mouth — on the elf-locks 
blown across her smooth, soft cheek ; and 
the things of the world, the things he had 
denied, surged up overwhelmingly. "You 
oughtn't to miss me," he said unevenly. 
" 'Tis I ought to miss you." 

Isabel looked down. "I wish you 
weren't going!" 

" Twon't be for long; I'll see you 
again soon." 

Her glance flashed back to his, warm 
and eager. 


The little whispered word sent his 
blood racing through his veins, and for 
one fierce moment the temptation to 
say, "I'll be alone at the office every 
dav," rose insistentlv; but with a sud- 
den shame at his own thought he flung it 

"My wife is going to ask you out to 
Kilmeadcn," he said instead. 

"Me? To Kilmeaden?" She flushed 
to her temples with swift, incredulous 

"Yes. You'll come, won't you ?" Un- 
consciously he slackened speed again. 

Her glance fell. 

He misinterpreted her silence. "Oh, 
but you must come," he said quickly. "I 
won't allow you to refuse. Look here! 
I'll make you a promise! You like the 
car! Well, I'll take you for such drives 
as vou'll never forget! Will that tempt 

Isabel still looked down £t her clasped 
hands, her colour coming and going. 

"Answer! Isabel!" 

It was the first time he had used her 
.name, though she had long ago ceased 
to be "Miss Costello" to all his people, 
and she started, as though he had touched 
her, the hot tide of blood rushing back 
into her face. 

The car was barely moving; he bent 
close to her. "You're not angry? Say 
you will come !" 

Then at last she met his glance, her 
own eyes alight with sudden exultation. 

"I'm not angry — I will come." 

{To be continued) 



EFORE discussing the 
question of the extent to 
which a novelist has a 
right to intrude his per- 
sonality between the 
reader and the story, it 
should be frankly ad- 
mitted that the absolutely impersonal at- 
titude, which is the aim and end of real- 
ism, is unattainable. The novelist, like 
the critic, remains always, consciously or 
not, to some degree subjective. Strive as 
he will to emancipate himself from his 
preferences and his aversions, some shad- 
ow of them inevitably falls upon his 
pages, to betray him. The truth is that, 
just as a sponge gives out only what it 
has absorbed, a novelist reflects only such 

aspects of life as he has himself taken in, 
through the more or less faulty medium 
of his senses. In our outlook upon life, 
no two of us see any one object in pre- 
cisely the same manner ; we are all to 
some degree myopic, astigmatic, colour- 
blind — mentally, morally, spiritually, 
what you will — and we cannot paint the 
simplest landscape without putting into 
it some line, some tint, some light or 
shadow which no one else could find in 
the original. Accordingly, we must re- 
member that every character and every 
incident that a novelist puts into the mov- 
ing-picture of his narrative represents 
not quite life as it is, but transmuted by 
its passage through the human limita- 
tions of his personality. 



On the whole, it is fortunate for art 
that these things are so; it is the breath 
of his own individual life, that he 
breathes into the forms he moulds, which 
makes the true artist a creator. And it 
would be as absurd to stigmatise this in- 
imitable creative touch which makes a 
Thackeray heroine something forever 
distinct and apart from a heroine of 
George Meredith or Henry James, as it 
would be to resent the general resem- 
blance which members of a family have 
inherited from a common ancestor. No 
author has yet lived who did not be- 
queath to the children of his brain a large 
share of his own personal views of life, 
his practical philosophy, his deeper emo- 
tions and lighter tastes. For a genera- 
tion, Maupassant has been held up as a 
model of the impersonal novelist ; yet his 
later biographers declare that no other 
writer has ever surpassed him in uncon- 
scious self-revelation, and that his writ- 
ings form, for those who hold the key, 
a most complete betrayal of his intimate 
life. And yet at the same time one is 
still justified in saying that Maupassant 
is never guilty of intrusion. And this 
raises the very natural question, Just at 
what point does the imprint of an 
author's personality begin to be felt as an 
intrusion, an interruption that mars the 
reader's enjoyment, or at least reminds 
him of the fictitious character of what he 
reads ? 

Like so many questions that arise in 
discussing the principles of fiction mak- 
ing, this is one which may be answered 
only conditionally ; for it depends largely, 
first, upon the temperament of the 
reader, and secondly, upon the author's 
individual charm of style. There are 
many people who read Thackeray for the 
sake of Thackeray rather than for the 
story he has to tell; just as there were 
many people who went to see Sir Henry 
Irving, not because of the play, but be- 
cause of Irving. And to these Thack- 
eray's constant intrusion as Master of 
the Performance, openly pulling the 
wires that move his puppets, confiden- 
tially discussing with us their merits and 
their defects, causes no more annoyance 
than Irving's stilted walk and other man- 
nerisms. To them, Thackeray is always 
Thackeray; they would not have him 

altered, if they could. And yet, as a 
principle of art, his method was defec- 
tive, and to the younger generation al- 
ready bears the stamp of the old-fash- 
ioned. When the modern novel was in 
its infancy, no one resented the presence 
of the novelist himself, visibly stalking 
through his pages; just as, when civilisa- 
tion was in its infancy, there was nothing 
incongruous in the visible presence of di- 
vinities in every grove and stream. But 
for an author to-day to interrupt the 
thread of his narrative, in order to talk 
to us confidentially about his personal 
opinions, whether concerning the divorce 
question or the stock market or his 
heroine's new bonnet, is, we feel, an 
intrusion, not merely unwarranted but 
inartistic — as much so as though at a 
modern play the author or stage manager 
should usurp the centre of the stage to 
add a running commentary upon what 
the members of the caste are trying to 
say and do. 

Now there are two ways in which nov- 
elists very commonly intrude, both of 
them highly inartistic, but one of 
them not merely inartistic but dishonest 
as well: the first is merely the Show- 
man's method of Thackeray ; the second 
is the deliberate dogmatism of those mis- 
taken individuals who write the so-called 
Purpose Novel. As a matter of theory, 
any phrase, word, trick of style or con- 
struction, which makes a reader sud- 
denly remember that what he is reading 
is not reality but the deliberate invention 
of the man whose name is on the title- 
page, is bad art. The novelist's foremost 
purpose should be to give us the illusion 
of real people in a real world, to make us 
forget the craft of construction that lies 
behind his story, as completely as we for- 
get the warp of the canvas behind a 
painted masterpiece. Mannerisms of 
style that refuse to be ignored, such, for 
instance, as those of Henry James, re- 
main to some readers a permanent ob- 
stacle to full enjoyment ; they never quite 
reach the point where they may forget 
the author, and fully believe in the real- 
ity of his creations. Those of us who 
reach a degree of familiarity with his 
verbal involutions comparable with an 
ability to read a foreign language with- 
out self-consciousness, must still find an- 



noyance in his occasional trick of re- 
ferring confidentially to "our young 
woman," or "our young friend," as if 
determined that we should not forget the 
mutual relation of author and reader. 
Yet this is probably the very mildest of 
the many ways in which a novelist's 
pride in the children of his thoughts 
tempts him to break through the conven- 
tional reserve and talk to us directly, as 
man to man. At the very opposite ex- 
treme lies the sin of the author who, be- 
cause he has espoused some cause or 
creed or theory, deliberately colours all 
his story with dishonest exaggeration and 
glaring partisanship. 

It is this tendency that has brought 
even the phrase ''problem novel" into dis- 
repute. As a matter of fact, many of the 
best novels of the past and the present 
are founded upon some big moral or so- 
cial problem, treated in a really big way. 
But all that we want of the novelist is 
to set the facts before us. Which side 
of the problem he takes is really of small 
importance to us — the important thing is 
what we ourselves think. And if the 
author has justice on his side, if the facts 
he marshals really bear him out, the pub- 
lic will be quite as ready to agree with 
him, without his personal intrusion, as 
though he wasted many pages in specific 
cally lecturing them on their duty. Sup- 
posing, for instance, that temperance is 
the cause that he has espoused : let him, 
by all means, tell us that his principal 
character is an alcoholic; let him tell us 
when, where and how this character pur- 
sues the over-indulgence which brings 
about the final tragedy — and let him, if 
he chooses, be as frank about the telling 
as Zola in his L'Assommoir. But let him 
imitate also Zola's impartiality; for if he 
permits himself to stigmatise the entire 
wine-list at once, under the sweeping 
generalisation, "the Demon Rum"; if he 
tells us that his hero is once more "tread- 
ing the path to perdition," when we know 
he has simply stepped across the street 
for a glass of beer; if he persistently re- 
fers to the "sink of infquity," when "cor- 
ner saloon" would have answered his 
purpose much better — then we know that 
our author is a bigot rather than a stu- 
dent of life, and his book is not serious 
fiction but a temperance tract in disguise. 

There is more than one way in which 
a novelist may impress his personal bias 
upon a story. He may, for instance, 
carefully refrain from all expression of 
direct opinion, and yet convey quite un- 
mistakably his own special prejudice, 
through the indirect method of the char- 
acter and incidents that he assembles. If 
he writes a political novel, he need not 
tell you in so many words to which party 
he belongs, if throughout the volume he 
makes every Democrat a hero and every 
Republican a knave. If his central theme 
is pathological, he need not tell you which 
practice he favours, if his allopathic doc- 
tors invariably lose their. patients, and his 
homeopaths invariably save them. And 
it may be accepted as a sound general 
proposition that if a novelist's story quite 
plainly offers a specific thesis, and in 
working it out he finds himself obliged 
over and over again to evoke the element 
of chance, you feel that his solution is of 
no more value as a w r orking rule t